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                          FIRST LENSMAN

        FIRST PUBLISHED - Fantasy Press hardbound, 1950


BY E. E. "DOC" SMITH

CHAPTER 1

The visitor, making his way unobserved through the crowded main laboratory of The Hill,
stepped up to within six feet of the back of a big Norwegian seated at an eleotrono-
optical bench. Drawing an automatic pistol, he shot the apparently unsuspecting scientist
seven times, as fast as he could pull the trigger; twice through the brain, five times,
closely spaced, through the spine.
     "Ah, Gharlane of Eddore, I have been expecting you to look me up. Sit down."
Blonde, blue-eyed Dr. Nels Bergenholm, completely undisturbed by the passage of the
stream of bullets through his head and body, turned and waved one huge hand at a stool
beside his own.
     "But those were not ordinary projectiles!" the visitor protested. Neither person --
or rather, entity -- was in the least surprised that no one else had paid any attention to
what had happened, but it was clear that the one was taken aback by the failure of his
murderous attack. "They should have volatilized that form of flesh -- should at least have
blown you back to Arisia, where you belong."
     "Ordinary or extraordinary, what matter? As you, in the guise of Gray Roger, told
Conway Costigan a short time since, 'I permitted that, as a demonstration of futility.'
Know, Gharlane, once and for all, that you will no longer be allowed to act directly
against any adherent of Civilization, wherever situate. We of Arisia will not interfere in
person with your proposed conquest of the two galaxies as you have planned it; since
the stresses and conflicts involved are necessary -- and, I may add, sufficient -- to
produce the Civilization which must and shall come into being. Therefore, neither will you,
or any other Eddorian, so interfere. You will go back to Eddore and you will stay there."
     "Think you so?" Gharlane sneered. "You, who have been so afraid of us for over
two thousand million Tellurian years that you dared not let us even learn of you? So
afraid of us that you dared not take any action to avert the destruction of any one of your
budding Civilizations upon any one of the worlds of either galaxy? So afraid that you dare
not, even now, meet me mind to mind, but insist upon the use of this slow and
unsatisfactory oral communication between us?"
     "Either your thinking is loose, confused, and turbid, which I do not believe to be
the case, or you are trying to lull me into believing that you are stupid." Bergenholm's
voice was calm, unmoved. "I do not think that you will go back to Eddore; I know it. You,
too, as soon as you have become informed upon certain matters, will know it. You
protest against the use of spoken language because it is, as you know, the easiest,
simplest, and surest way of preventing you from securing any iota of the knowledge for
which you are so desperately searching. As to a meeting of our two minds, they met fully
just before you, operating as Gray Roger, remembered that which your entire race
forgot long ago. As a consequence of that meeting I so learned every line and vibration
of your life pattern as to be able to greet you by your symbol, GharIane of Eddore,
whereas you know nothing of me save that I am an Arisian, a fact which has been
obvious from the first."
     In an attempt to create a diversion, Gharlane released the zone of compulsion
which he had been holding; but the Arisian took it over so smoothly that no human being
within range was conscious of any change.
     "It is true that for many cycles of time we concealed our existence from you,"
Bergenholm went on without a break. "Since the reason for that concealment will still
further confuse you, I will tell you what it was. Had you Eddorians learned of us sooner
you might have been able to forge a weapon of power sufficient to prevent the
accomplishment of an end which is now certain.
     "It is true that your operations as Lo Sang of Uighar were not constrained. As
Mithridates of Pontus -- as Sulla, Marius, and Nero of Rome -- as Hannibal of Carthage -
- as those self-effacing wights Alcixerxes of Greece and Menocoptes of Egypt -- as
Genghis Khan and Attila and the Kaiser and Mussolini and Hitler and the Tyrant of Asia
you were allowed to do as you pleased. Similar activities upon Rigel Four, Velantia,
Palain Seven, and elsewhere were also allowed to proceed without effective opposition.
With the appearance of Virgil Samms, however, the time arrived to put an end to your
customary pernicious, obstructive, and destructive activities. I therefore interposed a
barrier between you and those who would otherwise be completely defenseless against
you."
     "But why now? Why not thousands of cycles ago? And why Virgil Samms?"
     "To answer those questions would be to give you valuable data. You may -- too
late -- be able to answer them yourself. But to continue: you accuse me, and all Arisia, of
cowardice; an evidently muddy and inept thought. Reflect, please, upon the
completeness of your failure in the affair of Roger's planetoid; upon the fact that you
have accomplished nothing whatever since that time; upon the situation in which you now
find yourself.
     "Even though the trend of thought of your race is basically materialistic and
mechanistic, and you belittle' ours as being 'philosophic' and 'impractical', you found --
much to your surprise -- that your most destructive physical agencies are not able to
affect even this form of flesh which I am now energizing, to say nothing of affecting the
reality which is I.
     "If this episode is the result of the customary thinking of the second-in-command
of Eddore's Innermost Circle . . . but no, my visualization cannot be that badly at fault.
Overconfidence -- the tyrant's innate proclivity to underestimate an opponent -- these
things have put you into a false position; but I greatly fear that they will not operate to do
so in any really important future affair."
     "Rest assured that they will not!" Gharlane snarled. "It may not be -- exactly --
cowardice. It is, however, something closely akin. If you could have acted effectively
against us at any time in the past, you would have done so. If you could act effectively
against us now, you would be acting, not talking. That is elementary -- self-evidently true.
So true that you have not tried to deny it -- nor would you expect me to believe you if you
did." Cold black eyes stared level into icy eyes of Norwegian blue.
     "Deny it? No. I am glad, however, that you used the word 'effectively' instead of
'openly'; for we have been acting effectively against you ever since these newly-formed
planets cooled sufficiently to permit of the development of, intelligent life."
     "What? You have? How?"
     "That, too, you may learn -- too late. I have now said all I intend to say. I will give
you no more information. Since you already know that there are more adult Arisians than
there are Eddorians, so that at least one of us can devote his full attention to blocking the
direct effort of any one of you, it is clear to you that it makes no difference to me
whether you elect to go or to stay. I can and I will remain here as long as you do; I can
and I will accompany you whenever you venture out of the volume of space protected by
Eddorian screen, wherever you go. The election is yours."
     Gharlane disappeared. So did the Arisian -- instantaneously. Dr. Nels Bergenholm,
however, remained. Turning, he resumed his work where he had left off, knowing exactly
what he had been doing and exactly what he was going to do to finish it. He released the
zone of compulsion, which he had been holding upon every human being within sight or
bearing, so dextrously that no one suspected, then or ever, that anything out of the
ordinary had happened. 'He knew these things and did these things in spite of the fact
that the form of flesh which his fellows of the Triplanetary Service knew as Nels
Bergenholm was then being energized, not by the stupendously powerful mind of Drounli
the Molder, but by an Arisian child too young to be of any use in that which was about to
occur.
     Arisia was ready. Every Arisian mind capable' of adult, or of even near-adult
thinking was poised to act when the moment of action should come. They were not,
however, tense. While not in any sense routine, that which they were about to do had
been foreseen for many cycles of time. They knew exactly what they were going to do,
and exactly how to do it. They waited.
     "My visualization is not entirely clear concerning the succession of events
stemming from the fact that the fusion of which Drounli is a part did not destroy Gharlane
of Eddore while he was energizing Gray Roger," a young Watchman, Eukonidor by
symbol, thought into the assembled mind. "May I take a moment of this idle time in which
to spread my visualization, for enlargement and instruction?"
     "You may, youth." The Elders of Arisia -- the mightiest intellects of that
tremendously powerful race -- fused their several minds into one mind and gave
approval. "That will be time well spent. Think on."

"Separated from the other Eddorians by inter-galactic distance as he then was, Gharlane
could have been isolated and could have been destroyed," the youth pointed out, as he
somewhat diffidently spread his visualization in the public mind. "Since it is axiomatic that
his destruction would have weakened Eddore somewhat and to that extent would have
helped us, it is evident that some greater advantage will accrue from allowing him to live.
Some points are clear enough: that Gharlane and his fellows will believe that the Arisian
fusion could not kill him, since it did not; that the Eddorians,  contemptuous of our powers
and thinking us vastly their inferiors, will not be driven to develop such things as atomic-
energy-powered mechanical screens against third-level thought until such a time as it will
be too late for even those devices to save their race from extinction; that they will, in all
probability, never even suspect that the Galactic Patrol which is so soon to come into
being will in fact be the prime operator in that extinction. It is not clear, however, in view
of the above facts, why it has now become necessary for us to slay one Eddorian upon
Eddore. Nor can I formulate or visualize with any clarity the techniques to be employed in
the final wiping out of the race; I lack certain fundamental data concerning events which
occurred and conditions which obtained many, many cycles before my birth. I am unable
to believe that my perception and memory could have been so imperfect  -- can it be that
none of that basic data is, or ever has been available?"
     "That, youth, is the fact. While your visualization of the future is of course not as
detailed nor as accurate as it will be after more cycles of labor, your background of
knowledge is as complete as that of any other of our number."
     "I see." Eukonidor gave the mental equivalent of a nod of complete understanding.
"It is necessary, and the death of a lesser Eddorian -- a Watchman -- will be sufficient.
Nor will it be either surprising or alarming to Eddore's Innermost Circle that the integrated
total mind of Arisia should be able to kill such a relatively feeble entity. I see."
     Then silence; and waiting. Minutes? Or days? Or weeks? Who can tell? What
does time mean to any Arisian?
     Then Drounli arrived; arrived in the instant of his leaving The Hill -- what matters
even intergalactic distance to the speed of thought? He fused his mind with those of the
three other Molders of Civilization. The massed and united mind of Arisia, poised and
ready, awaiting only his coming, launched itself through space. That tremendous, that
theretofore unknown concentration of mental force arrived at Eddore's outer screen in
practically the same instant as did the entity that was Gharlane. The Eddorian, however,
went through without opposition; the Arisians did not.

                         *     *     *

Some two thousand million years ago, when the Coalescence occurred -- the event
which was to make each of the two interpassing galaxies teem with planets -- the
Arisians were already an ancient race; so ancient that they were even then independent
of the chance formation of planets. The Eddorians, it is believed, were older still. The
Arisians were native to this, our normal space-time continuum; the Eddorians were not.
     Eddore was -- and is -- huge, dense, and hot. Its atmosphere is not air, as we of
small, green Terra, know air, but is a noxious mixture of gaseous substances known to
mankind only in chemical laboratories. Its hydrosphere, while it does contain some water,
is a poisonous, stinking, foully corrosive, slimy and sludgy liquid.
     And the Eddorians were as different from any people we know as Eddore is
different from the planets indigenous to our space and time. They were, to our senses,
utterly monstrous; almost incomprehensible. They were amorphous, amoeboid, sexless.
Not androgynous or parthenogenetic, but absolutely sexless; with a sexlessness unknown
in any Earthly form of life higher than the yeasts. Thus they were, to all intents and
purposes and except for death by violence, immortal; for each one, after having lived for
hundreds of thousands of Tellurian years and having reached its capacity to live and to
learn, simply divided into two new individuals, each of which, in addition to possessing in
full its parent's mind and memories and knowledges, had also a brand-new zest and a
greatly increased capacity.
     And, since life was, there had been competition. Competition for power.
Knowledge was worth while only insofar as it contributed to power. Warfare began, and
aged, and continued; the appallingly efficient warfare possible only to such entities as
those. Their minds, already immensely powerful, grew stronger and stronger under the
stresses of internecine struggle.
     But peace was not even thought of. Strife continued, at higher and even higher
levels of violence, until two facts became apparent. First, that every Eddorian who could
be killed by physical violence had already died; that the survivors had developed such
tremendous powers of mind, such complete mastery of things physical as well as mental,
that they could not be slain by physical force. Second, that during the ages through which
they had been devoting their every effort to mutual extermination, their sun had begun
markedly to cool; that their planet would very soon become so cold that it would be
impossible for them ever again to live their normal physical lives.
     Thus there came about an armistice. The Eddorians worked together -- not
without friction -- in the development of mechanisms by the use of which they moved their
planet across light-years of space to a younger, hotter sun. Then, Eddore once more at
its hot and reeking norm, battle was resumed. Mental battle, this time, that went on for
more than a hundred thousand Eddorian years; during the last ten thousand of which not
a single Eddorian died.
     Realizing the futility of such unproductive endeavor, the relatively few survivors
made a peace of sorts. Since each had an utterly insatiable lust for power, and since it
bad become clear that they could neither conquer nor kill each other, they would combine
forces and conquer enough planets  enough galaxies -- so that each Eddorian could have
as much power and authority as he could possibly handle.
     What matter that there were not that many planets in their native space? There
were other spaces, an infinite number of them; some of which, it was mathematically
certain, would contain millions upon millions of planets instead of only two or three. By
mind and by machine they surveyed the neighboring continua; they developed the hyper-
spatial tube and the inertialess drive; they drove their planet, space-ship-wise, through
space after space after space.
     And thus, shortly after the Coalescence began, Eddore came into our space-time;
and here, because of the multitudes of planets already existing and the untold millions
more about to come into existence, it stayed. Here was what they had wanted since their
beginnings; here were planets enough, here were fields enough for the exercise of
power, to sate even the insatiable. There was no longer any need for them to fight each
other; they could now cooperate whole-heartedly  -- as long as each was getting more
and more and MORE!
     Enphilisor, a young Arisian, his mind roaming eagerly abroad as was its wont,
made first contact with the Eddorians in this space. Inoffensive, naive, innocent, he was
surprised beyond measure at their reception of his friendly greeting; but in the instant
before closing his mind to their vicious attacks, he learned the foregoing facts concerning
them.
     The fused mind of the Elders of Arisia, however, was not surprised. The Arisians,
while not as mechanistic as their opponents, and innately peaceful as well, were far
ahead of them in the pure science of the mind. The Elders had long known of the
Eddorians and of their lustful wanderings through plenum after plenum. Their
Visualizations of the Cosmic All had long since forecast, with dreadful certainty, the
invasion which had now occurred. They had long known what they would have to do.
They did it. So insidiously as to set up no opposition they entered the Eddorians' minds
and sealed off all knowledge of Arisia. They withdrew, tracelessly.
     They did not have much data, it is true; but no more could be obtained at that
time. If any one of those touchy suspicious minds had been given any cause for alarm,
any focal point of doubt, they would have had time in which to develop mechanisms able
to force the Arisians out of this space before a weapon to destroy the Eddorians -- the
as yet incompletely designed Galactic Patrol -- could be forged. The Arisians could, even
then, have slain by mental force alone all the Eddorians except the All-Highest and his
Innermost Circle, safe within their then impenetrable shield; but as long as they could not
make a clean sweep they could not attack  -- then.
     Be it observed that the Arisians were not fighting for themselves. As individuals or
as a race they had nothing to fear. Even less than the Eddorians could they be killed by
any possible application of physical force. Past masters of mental science, they knew
that no possible concentration of Eddorian mental force could kill any one of them. And if
they were to be forced out of normal space, what matter? To such mentalities as theirs,
any given space would serve as well as any other.
     No, they were fighting for an ideal; for the peaceful, harmonious, liberty-loving
Civilization which they had envisaged as developing throughout, and eventually entirely
covering the myriads of planets of, two tremendous Island Universes. Also, they felt a
heavy weight of responsibility. Since all these races, existing and yet to appear, had
sprung from and would spring from the Arisian life-spores which permeated this particular
space, they all were and would be, at bottom, Arisian. It was starkly unthinkable that
Arisia would leave them to the eternal dominance of such a rapacious, such a tyrannical,
such a hellishly insatiable breed of monsters.
     Therefore the Arisians fought; efficiently if insidiously. They, did not -- they could
not -- interfere openly with Eddore's ruthless conquest of world after world; with
Eddore's ruthless smashing of Civilization after Civilization. They did, however, see to it,
by selective matings and the establishment of blood-lines upon numberless planets, that
the trend of the level of intelligence was definitely and steadily upward.
     Four Molders of Civilization  --  Drounli, Kriedigan, Nedanillor, and Brolenteen,
who, in fusion, formed the "Mentor  of Arisia" who was to become known to every
wearer of Civilization's Lens -- were individually responsible for the Arisian program of
development upon the four planets of Tellus, Rigel IV, Velantia, and Palain VII. Drounli
established upon Tellus two principal lines of blood. In unbroken male line of descent the
Kinnisons went back to long before the dawn of even mythical Tellurian history. Kinnexa
of Atlantis, daughter of one Kinnison and sister of another, is the first of the blood to be
named in these annals; but the line was then already old. So was the other line;
characterized throughout its tremendous length, male and female, by peculiarly
spectacular red-bronze-auburn hair and equally striking gold-flecked, tawny eyes.
     Nor did these strains mix: Drounli had made it psychologically impossible for them
to mix until the penultimate stage of development should have been reached.
     While that stage was still in the future Virgil Samms appeared, and all Arisia knew
that the time had come to engage the Eddorians openly, mind to mind. Gharlane-Roger
was curbed, savagely and sharply. Every Eddorian, wherever he was working, found his
every line of endeavor solidly blocked.
     Gharlane, as has been intimated, constructed a supposedly irresistible weapon
and attacked his Arisian blocker, with results already told. At that failure Gharlane knew
that there was something terribly amiss; that it had been amiss for over two thousand
million Tellurian years. Really alarmed for the first time in his long life, he flashed back to
Eddore; to warn his fellows and to take counsel with them as to what should be done.
And the massed and integrated force of all Arisia was only an instant behind him.

                         *     *     *

Arisia struck Eddore's outermost screen, and in the instant of impact that screen went
down. And then, instantaneously and all unperceived by the planet's defenders, the
Arisian forces split. The Elders, including all the Molders, seized the Eddorian who had
been handling that screen -- threw around him an impenetrable net of force -- yanked him
out into intergalactic space.
     Then, driving in resistlessly, they turned the luckless wight inside out. And before
the victim died under their poignant probings, the Elders of Arisia learned everything that
the Eddorian and all of his ancestors had ever known. They then withdrew to Arisia,
leaving their younger, weaker, partially-developed fellows to do whatever they could
against mighty Eddore.
     Whether the attack of these lesser forces would be stopped at the second, the
third, the fourth, or the innermost screen; whether they would reach the planet itself and
perhaps do some actual damage before being driven off; was immaterial. Eddore must
be allowed and would be allowed to repel that invasion with ease. For cycles to come
the Eddorians must and would believe that they had nothing really to fear from Arisia.
     The real battle, however, had been won. The Arisian visualizations could now be
extended to portray every essential element of the climactic conflict which was eventually
to come. It was no cheerful conclusion at which the Arisians arrived, since their
visualizations all agreed in showing that the only possible method of wiping out the
Eddorians would also of necessity end their own usefulness as Guardians of Civilization.
     Such an outcome having been shown necessary, however, the Arisians accepted
it, and worked toward it, unhesitatingly.

CHAPTER 2

As has been said, The HILL, which had been built to be the Tellurian headquarters of the
Triplanetary Service and which was now the headquarters of the half-organized Solarian
Patrol, was -- and is -- a truncated, alloy-sheathed, honeycombed mountain. But, since
human beings do not like to live eternally underground, no matter how beautifully lighted
or how carefully and comfortably air-conditioned the dungeon may be, the Reservation
spread far beyond the foot of that gray, forbidding, mirror-smooth cone of metal. Well
outside that farflung Reservation there was a small city; there were hundreds of highly
productive farms; and, particularly upon this bright May afternoon, there was a
Recreation Park, containing, among other things, dozens of tennis courts.
     One of these courts was three-quarters enclosed by stands,  from which a couple
of hundred people were watching a match which seemed to be of some little local
importance. Two men sat in a box which had seats for twenty, and watched admiringly
the pair who seemed in a fair way to win in straight sets the mixed-doubles championship
of the Hill.
     "Fine-looking couple, Rod, if I do say so myself, as well as being smooth
performers." Solarian Councillor Virgil Samms spoke to his companion as the opponents
changed courts. "I still think, though, the young hussy ought to wear some clothes --
those white nylon shorts make her look nakeder even than usual. I told her so, too, the
jade, but she keeps on wearing less and less."
     "Of course," Commissioner Roderick K. Kinnison laughed quietly. "What did you
expect? She got her hair and eyes from you, why not your hard-headedness, too? One
thing, though, that's all to the good -- she's got what it takes to strip ship that way, and
most of 'em haven't. But what I can't understand is why they don't . . :' He paused.
     "I don't either. Lord knows we've thrown them at each other hard enough, and
Jack Kinnison and Jill Samms would certainly make a pair to draw to. But if they won't . .
. but maybe they will yet. They're still youngsters, and they're friendly enough"
     If Samms pere could have been out on the court, however, instead of in the box,
he would have been surprised; for young Kinnison, although smiling enough as to face,
was addressing his gorgeous partner in terms which carriers little indeed of friendliness.
     "Listen, you bird-brained, knot-headed, grand-standing half-wit!" he stormed, voice
low but bitterly intense. "I ought to beat your alleged brains out! I've told you a thousand
times to watch your own territory and stay out of mine! If you had been where you
belonged, or even taken my signal, Frank couldn't have made that thirty-all point; and if
Lois hadn't netted she'd've caught you flat-footed, a kilometer out of position, and made
it deuce. What do you think you're doing, anyway -- playing tennis or seeing how many
innocent bystanders you can bring down out of control?"
     "What do you think?" the girl sneered, sweetly. Her tawny eyes, only a couple of
inches below his own, almost emitted sparks. "And just look at who's trying to tell who
how to do what! For your information, Master Pilot John K. Kinnison, I'll tell you that just
because you can't quit being `Killer' Kinnison even long enough to let two good friends of
ours get a point now and then, or maybe even a game, is no reason why I've got to turn
into `Killer' Samms. And I'll also tell you . . "
     "You'll tell me nothing, Jill -- I'm telling you! Start giving away points in anything
and you'll find out some day that you've given away too many. I'm not having any of that
kind of game -- and as long as you're playing with me you aren't either -- or else. If you
louse up this match just once more, the next ball I serve will hit the tightest part of those
fancy white shorts of yours -- right where the hip pocket would be if they had any -- and
it'll raise a welt that will make you eat off of the mantel for three days. So watch your
step!"
     "You insufferable lug! I'd like to smash this racket over your head! I'll do it, too,
and walk off the court, if you don't. . . "
     The whistle blew. Virgilia Samms, all smiles, toed the base-line and became the
personification and embodiment of smoothly flowing motion. The ball whizzed over the
net, barely clearing it -- a sizzling service ace. The game went on.
     And a few minutes later, in the shower room, where Jack Kinnison was caroling
lustily while plying a towel, a huge young man strode up and slapped him ringingly
between the shoulder blades.
     "Congratulations, Jack, and so forth. But there's a thing I want to ask you.
Confidential, sort of. . .?"
     "Shoot! Haven't we been eating out of the same dish for lo, these many moons?
Why the diffidence all of a sudden, Mase? It isn't in character."
"Well . . . it's. . . I'm a lip-reader, you know."
     "Sure. We all are. What of it?"
     "It's only that . . . well, I saw what you and Miss Samms said to each other out
there, and if that was lovers' small talk I'm a Venerian mud-puppy."
     "Lovers! Who the hell ever said we were lovers? . . . Oh, you've been inhaling
some of dad's balloon-juice. Lovers! Me and that red-headed stinker-that jelly-brained
sapadilly? Hardly!"
     "Hold it, Jack!" The big officer's voice was slightly edged. "You're off course -- a
hell of a long flit off. That girl has got everything. She's the class of the Reservation --
why, she's a regular twelve-nineteen!"
     "Huh?" Amazed, young Kinnison stopped drying himself and stared. "You mean to
say you've been giving her a miss just because . . ." He had started to say "because
you're the best friend I've got in the System," but he did not.
     "Well, it would have smelled slightly cheesy, I thought."
     The other man did not put into words, either, what both of them so deeply knew to
be the truth. "But if you haven't got . . . if it's O.K. with you, of course . . ."
     "Stand by for five seconds -- I'll take you around."
     Jack threw on his uniform, and in a few minutes the two young officers,
immaculate in the space-black-and-silver of the Patrol, made their way toward the
women's dressing rooms.
     " . . but she's all aright, at that . . . in most ways . . . I guess." Kinnison was half-
apologizing for what he had said. "Outside of being chicken-hearted and pig-headed,
she's a good egg. She really qualifies . . . most of the time. But I. wouldn't have her,
bonus attached, any more than she would have me. It's strictly mutual. You won't fall for
her, either, Mase; you'll want to pull one of her legs off and beat the rest of her to death
with it inside of a week -- but there's nothing like finding things out for yourself."
     In a short time Miss Samms appeared; dressed somewhat less revealingly than
before in the blouse and kilts which were the mode of the moment.
     "Hi, Jill! This is Mase -- I've told you about him. My boatmate. Master Electronicist
Mason Northrop."
     "Yes, I've heard about you, 'Troncist-a lot." She shook hands warmly.
     "He hasn't been putting tracers on you, Jill, on accounta he figured he'd be
poaching. Can you feature that? I straightened him out, though, in short order. Told him
why, too, so he ought to be insulated against any voltage you can generate."
     "Oh, you did? How sweet of you! But how . . . oh, those?" She gestured at the
powerful prism binoculars, a part of the uniform of every officer of space.
     "Uh-huh." Northrop wriggled, but held firm.
     "If I'd only been as big and husky as you are," surveying admiringly some six feet
two of altitude and two hundred-odd pounds of hard meat, gristle, and bone, "I'd have
grabbed him by one ankle, whirled him around my head, and flung him into the fifteenth
row of seats. What's the matter with him, Mase, is that he was born centuries and
centuries too late. He should have been an overseer when they built the pyramids-
flogging slaves because they wouldn't step just so. Or better yet, one of those people it
told about in those funny old books they dug up last year-liege lords, or something like
that, remember? With the power of life and death û high, middle, and low justice',
whatever that was -- over their vassals and their families, serfs, and serving-wenches.
Especially serving-wenches! He likes little, cuddly babytalkers, who pretend to be utterly
spineless and completely brainless -- eh, Jack?"
     "Ouch! Touche, Jill -- but maybe I had it coming to me, at that. Let's call it off,
shall we? I'll be seeing you two, hither or yon." Kinnison turned and hurried away.
     "Want to know why he's doing such a quick flit?" Jill grinned up at her companion;
a bright, quick grin. "Not that he was giving up. The blonde over there -- the one in rocket
red. Very few blondes can wear such a violent shade. Dimples Maynard."
     "And is she . . . er . . . ?"
     "Cuddly and baby-talkish? Uh-uh. She's a grand person. I was just popping off; so
was he. You know that neither of us really meant half of what we said . . . or . . . at least
. . : " Her voice died away.
     "I don't know whether I do or not," Northrop replied, awkwardly but honestly.
"That was savage stuff if there ever was any. I can't see for the life of me why you two û
two of the world's finest people -- should have to tear into each other that way. Do you?"
     "I don't know that I ever thought of it like that." Jill caught her lower lip between
her teeth. "He's splendid, really, and I like him a lot -- usually. We get along perfectly
most of the time. We don't fight at all except when we're too close together . . . and then
we fight about anything and everything . . . say, suppose that that could be it? Like
charges, repelling each other inversely as the square of the distance? That's about the
way it seems to be."
     "Could be, and I'm glad." The man's face cleared. "And I'm a charge of the
opposite sign. Let's got"
     And in Virgil Samms' deeply-buried office, Civilization's two strongest men were
deep in conversation.
     ". . . troubles enough to keep four men of our size awake nights." Samms' voice
was light, but his eyes were moody and somber. "You can probably whip yours, though,
in time. They're mostly in one solar system; a short flit covers the rest. Languages and
customs are known. But how -- how -- can legal  processes work efficiently -- work at
all, for that matter when a man can commit a murder or a pirate can loot a space-ship
and be a hundred parsecs away before the crime is even discovered? How can a
Tellurian John Law  find a criminal on a strange world that knows nothing whatever of our
Patrol, with a completely alien language û maybe no language at all -- where it takes
months even to find out who and where -- if any -- the native police officers are? But
there must be a way, Rod -- there's got to be a way!" Samms slammed his open hand
resoundingly against his desk's bare top. "And by God I'll find it -- the Patrol will come
out on top!"
     " `Crusader' Samms, now and forever!" There was no trace of mockery in
Kinnison's voice or expression, but only friendship and admiration. "And I'll bet you do.
Your Interstellar Patrol, or whatever . . ."
     "Galactic Patrol. I know what the name of it is going to be, if nothing else."
     ". . . is just as good as in the bag, right now. You've done a job so far, Virge. This
whole system, Nevia, the colonies on Aldebaran II and other planets, even Valeria, as
tight as a drum. Funny about Valeria, isn't it. . ."
     There was a moment of silence, then Kinnison went on:
     "But wherever diamonds are, there go Dutchmen. And Dutch women go wherever
their men do. And, in spite of medical advice, Dutch babies arrive. Although a lot of the
adults died -- three G's is no joke -- practically all of the babies keep on living.
Developing bones and muscles to fit -- walking at a year and a half old -- living normally -
- they say that the third generation will be perfectly at home there."
     "Which shows that the human animal is more adaptable' than some ranking
medicos had believed, is all. Don't try to side-track me, Rod. You know as well as I do
what we're up against; the new headaches that interstellar commerce is bringing with it.
New vices -- drugs -- thionite, for instance; we haven't been able to get an inkling of an
idea as to where that stuff is coming from. And I don't have to tell you what piracy has
done to insurance rates."
     "I'll say not look at the price of Aldebaranian cigars,  the only kind fit to smoke!
You've given up, then, on the idea that Arisia is the. pirates' GHQ?"
     "Definitely. It isn't. The pirates are even more afraid of it than tramp spacemen
are. It's out of bounds -- absolutely forbidden territory, apparently -- to everybody, my
best operatives included. All we know about it is the name -- Arisia -- that our
planetographers gave it. It is the first completely incomprehensible thing I have ever
experienced. I am going out there myself as soon as I can take the time û not that I
expect to crack a thing that my best men couldn't touch, but there have been so many
different and conflicting reports -- no two stories agree on anything except in that no one
could get anywhere near the planet -- that I feel the need of some first-hand information.
Want to come along?"
     "Try to keep me from it!"
     "But at that, we shouldn't be too surprised," Samms went on, thoughtfully. "Just
beginning to scratch the surface as we are, we should expect to encounter peculiar,
baffling -- even completely inexplicable things. Facts, situations, events, and beings for
which our one-system experience could not possibly have prepared us. In fact, we
already have. If, ten years ago, anyone had told you that such a race as the Rigellians
existed, what would you have thought? One ship went there, you know -- once. One hour
in any Rigellian city -- one minute in a Rigellian automobile -- drives a Tellurian insane."
     "I see your point." Kinnison nodded. "Probably I would have ordered a mental
examination. And the Palainians are even worse. People -- if you can call them that who
live on Pluto and like it! Entities so alien that nobody, as far as I know, understands
them. But you don't have to go even that far from home to locate a job of unscrewing the
inscrutable. Who, what, and why -- and for how long -- was Gray Roger? And, not far
behind him, is this young Bergenholm of yours. And by the way, you never did give me
the lowdown on how come it was the 'Bergenholm', and not the `Rodebush-Cleveland',
that made trans-galactic commerce possible and caused nine-tenths of our headaches.
As I get the story, Bergenholm wasn't -- isn't -- even an engineer."
     "Didn't I? Thought I did. He wasn't, and isn't. Well, the original Rodebush-
Cleveland free drive was a killer,, you know . . "
     "How I know!" Kinnison exclaimed, feelingly.
     "They beat their brains out and ate their hearts out for months, without getting it
any better. Then, one day, this kid Bergenholm ambles into their shop -- big, awkward,
stumbling over his own feet. He gazes innocently at the thing for a couple of minutes,
then says:
     " `Why don't you use uranium instead of iron and rewind it so it will put out a
wave-form like this, with humps here, and here; instead of there, and there?' and he
draws a couple of free-hand, but really beautiful curves.
     "'Why should we?' they squawk at him.
     "'Because it will work that way,' he says, and ambles out as unconcernedly as he
came in. Can't -- or won't -- say another word.
     "Well in sheer desperation, they tried it -- and it WORKED! And nobody has ever
had a minute's trouble with a Bergenholm since. That's why Rodebush and Cleveland
both insisted on the name."
     "I see; and it points up what I just said. But if he's such a mental giant, why isn't
he getting results with his own problem, the meteor? Or is he?"
     "No . . . or at least he wasn't as of last night. But there's a note on my pad that he
wants to see me sometime today û suppose we have him come in now?"
     "Fine! I'd like to talk to him, if it's O.K. with you and with him."
     The young scientist was called in, and was introduced to the Commissioner.
     "Go ahead, Doctor Bergenholm," Samms suggested then. "You may talk to both
of us, just as freely as though you and I were alone."
     "I have, as you already know, been called psychic," Bergenholm began, abruptly.
"It is said that I dream dreams, see visions, hear voices, and so on. That I operate on
hunches. That I am a genius. Now I very definitely am not a genius  -- unless my
understanding of the meaning of that word is different from that of the rest of mankind."
     Bergenholm paused. Samms and Kinnison looked at each other. The latter broke
the short silence.
     "The Councillor and I have just been discussing the fact that there are a great
many things we do not know; that with the extension of our activities into new fields, the
occurrence of the impossible has become almost a commonplace. We are able, I
believe, to listen with open minds to anything you have to say."
     "Very well. But first, please know that I am a scientist. As such, I am trained to
observe; to think calmly, clearly, and analytically; to test every hypothesis. I do not
believe at all in the so-called supernatural. This universe did not come into being, it does
not continue to be, except by the operation of natural and immutable laws. And I mean
immutable, gentlemen. Everything that has ever happened, that is happening now, or
that ever is to happen, was, is, and will be statistically connected with its predecessor
event and with its successor event. If I did not believe that implicitly, I would lose all faith
in the scientific method. For if one single 'supernatural' event or thing had ever occurred
or existed it would have constituted an entirely unpredictable event and would have
initiated a series -- a succession -- of such events; a state of things which no scientist will
or can believe possible in an orderly universe.
     "At the same time, I recognize the fact that I myself have done things -- caused
events to occur, if you prefer -- that I cannot explain to you or to any other human being
in any symbology known to our science; and it is about an even more inexplicable -- call it
`hunch' if you like -- that I asked to have a talk with you today."
     "But you are arguing in circles," Samms protested. "Or are you trying to set up a
paradox?"
     "Neither. I am merely clearing the way for a somewhat startling thing I am to say
later on. You know, of course, that any situation with which a mind is unable to cope; a
really serious dilemma which it cannot resolve; will destroy that mind-frustration, escape
from reality, and so on. You also will realize that I must have become cognizant of my
own peculiarities long before anyone else did or could?"
     "Ah. I see. Yes, of course." Samms, intensely interested, leaned forward. "Yet
your present personality is adequately, splendidly integrated. How could you possibly
have overcome -- reconciled -- a situation so full of conflict?"
     "You are, I think, familiar with my parentage?" Samms, keen as he was, did not
consider it noteworthy that the big Norwegian answered his question only by. asking one
of his own.
     "Yes . . . oh, I'm beginning to see . . . but Commissioner Kinnison has not had
access to your dossier. Go ahead."
     "My father is Dr. Hjalmar Bergenholm. My mother, before her marriage, was Dr.
Olga Bjornson. Both were, and are, nuclear physicists -- very good ones. Pioneers, they
have been called. They worked, and are still working, in the newest, outermost fringes of
the field."
     "Oh!" Kinnison exclaimed.."A mutant? Born with second sight -- or whatever it is?"
     "Not second sight, as history describes the phenomenon, . no. The records do not
show that any such faculty was ever demonstrated to the satisfaction of any competent
scientific investigator. What I have is something else. Whether or not it will breed true is
an interesting topic of speculation, but one having nothing to do with the problem now in
hand. To return to the subject, I resolved my dilemma long since. There is, I am
absolutely certain, a science of the mind which is as definite, as positive, as immutable of
law, as is the science of the physical. While I will make no attempt to prove it to you,  I
know that such a science exists, and that I was born with the ability to perceive at least
some elements of it.
     "Now to the matter of the meteor of 'the Patrol. That emblem was and is purely
physical. The pirates have just as able scientists as we have. What physical science can
devise and synthesize, physical science can analyze and duplicate. There is a point,
however, beyond which physical science cannot go. It can neither analyze nor imitate the
tangible products of that which I have so loosely called the science of the mind.
     "I know, Councillor Samms, what the Triplanetary Service needs; something vastly
more than its meteor. I also know that the need will become greater and greater as the
sphere of action of the Patrol expands. Without a really efficient symbol, the Solarian
Patrol will be hampered even more than the Triplanetary Service; and its logical
extension into the Space Patrol, or whatever that larger organization may be called, will
be definitely impossible. We need something which will identify any representative of
Civilization, positively and unmistakably, wherever he may be. It must be impossible of
duplication, or even of imitation, to which end it must kill any unauthorized entity who
attempts imposture. It must operate as a telepath between its owner and any other living
intelligence,, of however high or low degree, so that mental communication, so much
clearer and faster than physical, will be possible without the laborious learning of
language; or between us and such peoples as those of Rigel Four or of Palain Seven,
both of whom we know to be of high intelligence and who must already be conversant
with telepathy."
     "Are you or have you been, reading my mind?" Samms asked quietly.
     "No," Bergenholm replied flatly. "It is not and has not been necessary. Any man
who can think, who has really considered the question, and who has the good of
Civilization at heart, must have come to the same conclusions."
     "Probably so, at that. But no more side issues. You have a solution of some kind
worked out, or you would not be here. What is it?"
     "It is that you, Solarian Councillor Samms, should go to Arisia as soon as
possible."
     "Arisia!" Samms exclaimed, and:
     "Arisia! Of all the hells in space, why Arisia? And how can we make the
approach? Don't you know that nobody can get anywhere near that damn planet?"
     Bergenholm shrugged his shoulders and spread both arms wide in a pantomime of
complete helplessness.
     "How do you know-another of your hunches?" Kinnison went on. "Or did
somebody tell you something? Where did you get it?"
     "It is not a hunch," the Norwegian replied, positively. "No one told me anything. But
I know-as definitely as I know that the combustion of hydrogen in oxygen will yield water
-that the Arisians are very well versed in that which I have called the science of the mind;
that if Virgil Sammy goes to Arisia he will obtain the symbol he needs; that he will never
obtain it otherwise. As to how I know these things ... I can't . . . I just . . . I know it, I tell
you!"
     Without another word, without asking permission to leave, Bergenholm whirled
around and hurried out. Sammy and Kinnison stared at each other.
     "Well?" Kinnison asked, quizzically.
     "I'm going. Now. Whether I can be spared or not, and whether you think I'm out of
control or not. I believe him, every word-and besides, there's the Bergenholm. How about
you? Coming?"
     "Yes. Can't say that I'm sold one hundred percent; but, as you say, the
Bergenholm is a hard fact to shrug off. And at minimum rating, it's got to be tried. What
are you taking? Not a fleet, probably-the Boise? Or the Chicago?" It was the
Commissioner of Public Safety speaking now, the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed
Forces. "The Chicago, I'd say-the fastest and strongest thing in space."
     "Recommendation approved. Blast-off; twelve hundred hours tomorrow!"

CHAPTER 3

The superdreadnought Chicago, as she approached the imaginary but nevertheless
sharply defined boundary, which no other ship had been allowed to pang, went inert and
crept forward, mile by mile. Every man, from Commissioner and Councillor down, was
taut and tense. So
     widely, variant, so utterly fantastic, were the stories going around about this Arisia
that no one knew what to expect. They expected the unexpected-and got it.
     "Ah, Tellurians, you are precisely on time." A strong, assured, deeply resonant
pseudo-voice made itself heard in the depths of each mind aboard the tremendous ship
of war. "Pilots and navigating officers, you will shift course to one seventy eight dash
seven twelve fifty three. Hold that course, inert, at one Tellurian gravity of acceleration.
Virgil Sammy will now be interviewed. He will return to the consciousnesses of the rest of
you in exactly six of your hours."
     Practically dazed by the shock of their first experience with telepathy, not one of
the Chicago's crew perceived anything unusual in the phraseology of that utterly precise,
diamond-clear thought. Sammy and Kinnison, however, precisionists themselves, did.
But, warned although they were and keyed up although they were to detect any sign of
hypnotism or of mental suggestion, neither of them had the faintest suspicion, then or
ever, that Virgil Sammy did not as a matter of fact leave the Chicago at all.
     Sammy knew that he boarded a lifeboat and drove it toward the shimmering haze
beyond which Arisia, was. Commissioner Kinnison knew, as surely as did every other
man aboard, that Sammy did those things, because he and the other officers and most
of the crew watched Sammy do them. They watched the lifeboat dwindle in size with
distance; watched it disappear within the peculiarly iridescent veil of force which their
most penetrant ultra-beam spy-rays could not pierce.
     They waited.
     And, since every man concerned knew, beyond any shadow of doubt and to the
end of his life, that everything that seemed to happen actually did happen, it will be so
described.
     Virgil Sammy, then, drove his small vessel through Arisia's innermost screen and
saw a planet so much like Earth that it might have been her sister world. There were the
white icecaps, the immense blue oceans, the verdant continents partially obscured by
fleecy banks of cloud.
     Would there, or would there not, be cities? While he had not known at all exactly
what to expect, he did not believe that there would be any large cities upon Arisia. To
qualify for the role of dens ex machina, the, Arisian with whom Sammy was about to
deal would have to be a superman indeed-a being completely beyond man's knowledge
or experience in power of mind. Would such a race of beings have need of such things as
cities? They would not. There would be no cities.
     Nor were there. The lifeboat flashed downward-slowed -landed smoothly in a
regulation dock upon the outskirts of what appeared to be a small village surrounded by
farms and woods.
     "This way, please." An inaudible voice directed him toward a two-wheeled vehicle
which was almost, but not quite, like a Dillingham roadster.
     This car, however, took off by itself as soon as Samms closed the door. It sped
smoothly along a paved highway devoid of all other traffic, past farms and past cottages,
to stop of itself in front of the low, massive structure which was the center of the village
and, apparently, its reason for being.
     "This way, please," and Samms went through an-automatically-opened door;
along a short, bare hall; into a fairly large central room containing a vat and one deeply-
holstered chair.
     "Sit down, please." Samms did so, gratefully. He did not know whether he could
have stood up much longer or not.
     He had expected to encounter a tremendous mentality; but this was a thing far, far
beyond his wildest imaginings. This was a brain-just that-nothing else. Almost globular; at
least ten feet in diameter; immersed in and in perfect equilibrium with a pleasantly
aromatic liquid-a, BRAIN!
     "Relax," the Arisian ordered, soothingly, and Samms found that he could relax.
"'Through the one you know as Bergenholm I heard of your need and have permitted you
to come here this once for instruction."
     "But this . . . none of this . . . it isn't . . . it can't be reap" Samms blurted. "I am-I
must be-imagining it . . . and yet I know that I can't be hypnotized-I've been psychoed
against it!"
     "What is reality?" the Arisian asked, quietly. "Your profoundest thinkers have
never been able to answer that question. Nor, although I am much older and a much
more capable thinker than any member of your race, would I attempt to give you its true
answer. Nor, since your experience has been so limited, is it to be expected that you
could believe without reservation any assurances I might give you in thoughts or in words.
You must, then, convince yourselfdefinitely, by means of your own five senses-that I and
everything about you are real, as you understand reality. You saw the village and this
building; you see the flesh that houses the entity which is I. You feel your own flesh; as
you tap the
     woodwork with your knuckles you feel the impact and hear the vibrations as
sound. As you entered this room you must have perceived the odor of the nutrient
solution in which and by virtue of which I live. There remains only the sense of taste. Are
you by any chance either hungry or thirsty?"
     "Both."
     "Drink of the tankard in the niche yonder. In order to avoid any appearance of
suggestion I will tell you nothing of its content except the one fact that it matches
perfectly the chemistry of your tissues."
     Gingerly enough, Samms brought the pitcher to his lips -then, seizing it in both
hands, he gulped down a tremendous draught. It was GOOD! It smelled like all
appetizing kitchen aromas blended into one; it tasted like all of the most delicious meals
he had ever eaten; it quenched his thirst as no beverage had ever done. But he could not
empty even that comparatively small- container-whatever the stuff was, it had a satiety
value immensely higher even than old, rare, roast beef! With a sigh of repletion Samms
replaced the tankard and turned again to his peculiar host.
     "I am convinced. That was real. No possible mental influence could so completely
and unmistakably satisfy the purely physical demands of a body as hungry and as thirsty
as mine was. Thanks, immensely, for allowing me to come here, Mr .... T'
     "You may call me Mentor. I have no name, as you understand the term. Now,
then, please think fully-you need not speak-of your problems and of your difficulties; of
what you have done and of what you have it in mind to do."
     Samms thought, flashingly and cogently. A few minutes sufficed to cover
Triplanetary's history and the beginning of the Solarian Patrol; then, for almost three
hours, he went into the ramifications of the Galactic Patrol of his imaginings. Finally he
wrenched himself back to reality. He jumped up, paced the floor, and spoke.
     "But there's a vital flaw, one inherent and absolutely ruinous fact that makes the
whole thing impossible!" he burst out, rebelliously. "No one man, or group of men, no
matter who they are, can be trusted with that much power. The Council and I have
already been called everything imaginable; and what we have done so far is literally
nothing at all in comparison with what the Galactic Patrol could and must do. Why, I
myself would be the first to protest against the granting of such power to anybody. Every
dictator in history, from Philip of Macedon to the Tyrant of Asia, claimed to be-and
probably was, in his beginnings-motivated solely by benevolence. How am I to think that
the proposed Galactic Council, or even I myself, will be strong enough to conquer a thing
that has corrupted utterly every man who has ever won it? Who is to watch the
watchmen?"
     "The thought does you credit, youth," Mentor replied, unmoved. "That is one
reason why you are here. You, of your own force, can not know that you are in fact
incorruptible. I, however, know. Moreover, there is an agency by virtue of which that
which you now believe to be impossible will become commonplace. Extend your arm."
     Samms did so, and there snapped around his wrist a platinum-iridium bracelet
carrying, wrist-watch-wise, a lenticular something at which the Tellurian stared in
stupefied amazement. It seemed to be composed of thousands-millions-of tiny gems,
each of which emitted pulsatingly all the colors of the spectrum; it was throwing out-
broadcasting -a turbulent flood of writhing, polychromatic lightl
     "The sucessor to the golden meteor of the Triplanetary Service," Mentor said,
calmly. "The Lens of Arisia. You may take my word for it, until your own experience shall
have convinced you of the fact, that no one will ever wear Arisia's Lens who is in any
sense unworthy. Here also is one for your friend, Commissioner Kinnison; it is not
necessary for him to come physically to Arisia. It is, you will observe, in an insulated
container, and does not glow. Touch its surface, but lightly and very fleetingly, for the
contact will be painful."
     Samms' finger-tip barely touched one dull, gray, lifeless jewel: his whole arm
jerked away uncontrollably as there swept through his whole being the intimation of an
agony more poignant by far than any he had ever known.
     "Why-it's alive!" he gasped.
     "No, it is not really alive, as you understand the term . . :' Mentor paused, as
though seeking a way to describe to the Tellurian a thing which was to him starkly,
incomprehensible. "It is, however, endowed with what you might call a sort of pseudo-
life; by virtue of which it gives off its characteristic radiation while, and only while, it is in
physical circuit with the living entity-the ego, let us say-with whom it is in exact
resonance. Glowing, the Lens is perfectly harmless; it is complete-saturated-satiated-
fulfilled. In the dark condition it is, as you have learned, dangerous in the extreme. It is
then incomplete-unfulfilled-frustrated-you might say
     seeking or yearning or demanding. In that condition its pseudo-life interferes so
strongly with any life to which it is not attuned that that life, in a space of seconds, is
forced out of this plane or cycle of existence."
     "Then I-I alone-of all the entities in existence, can wear this particular Lens?"
Samms licked his lips and stared at it, glowing so satisfyingly and contentedly upon his
wrist. "But when I die, will it be a perpetual menace?"
     "By no means. A Lens cannot be brought into being except to match same one
living personality; a short time after you pass into the next cycle your Lens will
disintegrate."
     "Wonderful!" Samms breathed, in awe. "But there's one thing . . . these things are
. . . priceless, and there will be millions of them to make . . . and you don't. . ."
     "What will we get out of it, you mean?" The Arisian seemed to smile.
     "Exactly." Samms blushed, but held his ground. "Nobody does anything for
nothing. Altruism is beautiful in theory, but it has never been known to work in practice. I
will pay a tremendous price any price within reason or possibilityfor the Lens; but I will
have to know what that price is to be."
     "It will be heavier than you think, or can at present realize; although not in the
sense you fear." Mentor's thought was solemnity itself. "Whoever wears the Lens of
Arisia will carry a load that no weaker mind could bear. The load of authority; of
responsibility; of knowledge that would wreck completely any mind of lesser strength.
Altruism? No. Nor is it a case of good against evil, as you so firmly believe. Your mental
picture of glaring white and of unrelieved black is not a true picture. Neither absolute evil
nor absolute good do or can exist."
     "But that would make it still worse!" Samms protested. "In that case, I can't see
any reason at all for your exerting yourselves-putting yourselves out-for us."
     "There is, however, reason enough; although I am not sure that I can make it as
clear to you as I would wish. There are in fact three reasons; any one of which would
justify us in exerting-would compel us to exert-the trivial effort involved in the furnishing of
Lenses to your Galactic Patrol. First, there is nothing either intrinsically right or
intrinsically wrong about liberty or slavery, democracy or autocracy, freedom of action or
complete regimentation. It seems to us, however, that the greatest measure of
happiness and of well-being for the greatest number of entities, and therefore the
optimum advancement toward whatever sublime Goal it is toward which this cycle of
existence is trending in the vast and unknowable Scheme of Things, is to be obtained by
securing for each and every individual the greatest amount of mental and physical
freedom compatible with the public welfare. We of Arisia are only a small part of this
cycle; and, as goes the whole, so goes in greater or lesser degree each of the parts. Is
it impossible for you, a fellow citizen of this cycle-universe, to believe that such fulfillment
alone would be ample compensation for a much greater effort?"
     "I never thought of it in that light . . ." It was hard for Samms to grasp the concept;
he never did understand it thoroughly. "I begin to see, I think . . . at least, I believe you."
     "Second, we have a more specific obligation in that the life of many, many worlds
has sprung from Arisian seed. Thus, in loco parentis, we would be derelict indeed if we
refused to act. And third, you yourself spend highly valuable time and much effort in
playing chess. Why do you do it? What do you get out of it?"
     "Why, I . . . uh . . . mental excercise, I suppose . . ,,I like it!"
     "Just so. And I am sure that one of your very early philosophers came to the
conclusion that a fully competent mind, from a study of one fact or artifact belonging to
any given universe, could construct or visualize that universe, from the instant of its
creation to its ultimate end?"
     "Yes. At least, I have heard the proposition stated, but I have never believed it
possible."
     "It is not possible simply because no fully competent mind ever has existed or ever
will exist. A mind can become fully competent only by the acquisition of infinite
knowledge, which would require infinite time as well as infinite capacity. Our equivalent of
your chess, however, is what we call the 'Visualization of the Cosmic All'. In my
visualization a descendant of yours named Clarrissa MacDougall will, in a store called
Brenleer's upon the planet . . . but no, let us consider a thing nearer at hand and
concerning you personally, so that its accuracy will be subject to check. Where you will
be and exactly what you will be doing, at some definite time in the future. Five years, let
us say?"
     "Go ahead. If you can do that you're good."
     "Five Tellurian calendar years then, from the instant of your passing through the
screen of 'The Hill' on this present journey, you will be . . . allow me, please, a moment of
thought . . . you will be in a barber shop not yet built; the address of which is to be fifteen
hundred fifteen Twelfth Avenue, Spokane, Washington, North America, Tellus. The
barber's name will be Antonio Carbonero and he will be left-handed. He will be engaged
in cutting your hair. Or rather, the actual cutting will have been done and he will be
shaving, with a razor trade-marked 'Jensen-King-Byrd', the short hairs in front of your left
ear. A comparatively small, quadrupedal, grayish-striped entity, of the race called 'cat'-a
young cat, this one will be, and called Thomas, although actually of the female sex-will
jump into your lap, addressing you pleasantly in a language with which you yourself are
only partially familiar. You call it mewing and purring, I believe?"
     "Yes," the flabbergasted Samms managed to say. "Cats do purr--especially
kittens."
     "Ah-very good. Never having met a cat personally, I am gratified at your
corroboration of my visualization. This female youth erroneously called Thomas,
somewhat careless in computing the elements of her trajectory, will jostle slightly the
barber's elbow with her tail; thus causing him to make a slight incision, approximately
three millimeters long, parallel to and just above your left cheekbone. At the precise
moment in question, the barber will be applying a styptic pencil to this insignificant
wound. This forecast is, I trust, sufficiently detailed so that you will have no difficulty in
checking its accuracy or its lack thereof?"
     "Detailed! Accuracy!" Samms could scarcely think. "But listen-not that I want to
cross you up deliberately, but I'll tell you now that a man doesn't like to get sliced by a
barber, even such a little nick as that. I'll remember that address-and the cat-and I'll
never go into the place!"
     "Every event does affect the succession of events," Mentor acknowledged,
equably enough. "Except for this interview, you would have been in New Orleans at that
time, instead of in Spokane. I have considered every pertinent factor. You will be a busy
man. Hence, while you will think of this matter frequently and seriously during the near
future, you will have forgotten it in less than five years. You will remember it only at the
touch of the astringent, whereupon you will give voice to certain self-derogatory and
profane remarks."
     "I ought to," Samms grinned; a not-too-pleasant grin. He had been appalled by the
quality of mind able to do what Mentor had just done; be was now more than appalled by
the Arisian's calm certainty that what he had foretold in such detail would in every detail
come to pass. "If, after all this Spokane-let a tiger-striped kitten jump into my lap-let a
left-handed Tony Carbonero nick me-uh-uh, Mentor, UH-UH! It I do, I'll deserve to be
called everything I can think of!"
     "These that I have mentioned, the gross occurrences, are problems only for
inexperienced thinkers." Mentor paid no attention to Samms' determination never to enter
that shop. "The real difficulties lie in the fine detail, such as the length, mass, and exact
place and position of landing, upon apron or floor, of . each of your hairs as it is severed.
Many factors are involved. Other clients passing by-opening and shutting doors-air
currents-sunshine-wind-pressure, temperature, humidity. The exact fashion ' in which the
barber will flick his shears, which in turn depends upon many other factorswhat he will
have been doing previously, what he will have eaten and drunk, whether or not his home
life will have been happy . . you little realize, youth, what a priceless opportunity this will
be for me to check the accuracy of my visualization. I shall spend many periods upon the
problem. I cannot attain perfect accuracy, of course. Ninety nine point nine nines percent,
let us say . . . or perhaps ten nines . . . is all that I can reasonably expect . . ."
     "But, Mentorl" Samms protested. "I can't help you on a thing like thatl How can I
know or report the exact mass, length, and -orientation of single hairs?"
     "You cannot; but, since you will be wearing your Lens, I myself can and will
compare minutely my visualization with the actuality. For know, youth, that wherever any
Lens is, there can any Arisian be if he so desires. Arid now, knowing that fact, and from
your own knowledge of the satisfactions to be obtained from chess and other such
mental activities, and from the glimpses you have had into my own mind, do you retain
any doubts that we Arisians will be fully compensated for the trifling effort involved in
furnishing whatever number of Lenses may be required?"
     "I have no more doubts. But this Lens . . . I'm getting more afraid of it every
minute. I see that it is a perfect identification; I can understand that it can be a perfect
telepath. But is it something else, as well? If it has other powers . . . what are they?"
     "I cannot tell you; or, rather, I will not. It is best for your own development that I
do not, except in the most general terms. It has additional qualities, it is true; but, since
no two entities ever have the same abilities, no two Lenses will ever be of identical
qualities. Stricly speaking, a Lens has no real power of its own; it merely concentrates,
intensifies,
     and renders available whatever powers are already possessed by its wearer. You
must develop your own powers and your own abilities; we of Arisia, in furnishing the
Lens, will have done everything that we should do."
     "Of course, sir; and much more than we have any right to expect. You have given
me a Lens for Roderick Kinnison; how about the others? Who is to select them?"
     "You are, for a time." Silencing the man's protests, Mentor went on: "You will find
that your judgment will be good. You will send to us only one entity who will not be given
a Lens, and it is necessary that that one entity should be sent here. You will begin a
system of selection and training which will become more and more rigorous as time goes
on. This will be necessary; not for the selection itself, which the Lensmen themselves
could do among babies in their cradles, but because of the benefits thus conferred upon
the many who will not graduate, as well as upon the few who will. In the meantime you
will select the candidates; and you will be shocked and dismayed when you discover how
few you will be able to send.
     "You will go down in history as First Lensman Samms; the Crusader, the man
whose wide vision and tremendous grasp made it possible for the Galactic Patrol to
become what it is to be. You will have highly capable help, of course. The Kinnisons, with
their irresistible driving force, their indomitable will to do, their transcendent urge;
Costigan, back of whose stout Irish heart lie Erin's best of brains and brawn; your
cousins George and Ray Olmstead; your daughter Virgilia . . : "
     "Virgilia! Where does she fit into this picture? What do you know about her-and
how?"
     "A mind would be incompetent indeed who could not visualize, from even the most
fleeting contact with you, a fact which has been in existence for some twenty three of
your years. Her doctorate in psychology; her intensive studies under Martian and
Venerian masters-even under one reformed Adept of North Polar Jupiter-of the
involuntary, uncontrollable, almost unknown and hence highly revealing muscles of the
face, the hands, and other parts of the human body. You will remember that poker game
for a long time."
     "I certainly will." Samms grinned, a bit shamefacedly. "She
     gave us clear warning of what she was going to do, and then
cleaned us out to the last millo." "
     "Naturally. She has, all unconsciously, been training herself for the work she is
destined to do. But to resume; you will feel yourself incompetent, unworthy-that, too, is a
part of a Lensman's Load. When you first scan the mind of Roderick Kinnison you will
feel that he, not you,.-should be the prime mover in the Galactic Patrol. But know now
that no mind, not even the most capable in the universe, can either visualize truly or truly
evaluate itself. Commissioner Kinnison, upon scanning your mind as he will scan it, will
know the truth and will be well content. But time presses; in one minute you leave."
     "Thanks a lot . . . thanks." Samms got to his feet and paused, hesitantly. "I
suppose that it will be all right . . . that is, I can call on you again, if . . .?"
     "No," the Arisian declared, coldly. "My visualization does not indicate that it will
ever again be either necessary or desirable four you to visit or to communicate with me
or with any other Arisian."
     Communication ceased as though a solid curtain had been drawn between the
two. Samms strode out and stepped into the waiting vehicle, which whisked him back to
his lifeboat. He blasted off; arriving in the control room of the Chicago precisely at the
end of the sixth hour after leaving it.
     "Well, Rod, I'm back . . ." he began, and stopped; utterly unable to speak. For at
the mention of the name Samms' Lens had put him fully en rapport with his friend's whole
mind; and what he perceived struck him-literally and precisely-dumb.
     He had always liked and admired Rod Kinnison. He had always known that he
was tremendously able and capable. He had known that he was big; clean; a square
shooter; the world's best. Hard; a driver who had little more mercy on his underlings in
selected undertakings than he had on himself. But now, as he saw spread out for his
inspection Kinnison's ego in its entirety; as he compared in fleeting glances that terrific
mind with those of the other officers-good men, too, all of them-assembled in the room;
he knew that he had never even begun to realize what a giant Roderick Xinnison really
was.
     "What's the matter, Virge?" Kinnison exclaimed, and hurried up, both hands
outstretched. "You look like you're seeing ghosts! What did they do to you?"
     "Nothing-much. But `ghosts' doesn't half describe what I'm seeing right now.
Come into my office, will you, Rod?"
     Ignoring the curious stares of the junior officers, the Commissioner and the
Councillor went into the latter's quarters, and in those quarters the two Lensmen
remained in close
     consultation during practically all of the return trip to Earth. In fact, they were still
conferring deeply, via Lens, when the Chicago landed and they took a ground-car into
The Hill.
     "But who are you going to send first, Virge?" Kinnison demanded. "You must have
decided on at least some of them, by this time."
     "I know of only five, or possibly six, who are ready," Samms replied, glumly. "I
would have sworn that I knew of a hundred, but they don't measure up. Jack, Mason
Northrop, and Conway Costigan, for the first load. Lyman Cleveland, Fred Rodebush,
and perhaps Bergenholm-I haven't been able to figure him out, but I'll know when I get
him under my Lens-next. That's all."
     "Not quite. How about your identical-twin cousins, Ray and George Olmstead,
who have been doing such a terrific job of counter-spying?"
     "Perhaps . . . Quite possibly."
     "And if I'm good enough, Clayton and Schweikert certainly are, to name only two
of the commodores. And Knobos and DalNalten. And above all, how about Jill?"
     "Jill? Why, I don't . . . she measures up, of course, but . . .
     but at that, there was nothing said against it, either .. . . I
wonder. . : "
     "Why not have the boys m-Jill, too-and thrash it out?''
     The young people were called in; the story was told; the problem stated. The
boys' reaction was instantaneous and unanimous. Jack Kinnison took the lead.
     "Of course Jill's going, if anybody does!'' he burst out vehemently. "Count her out,
with all the stuff she's got? Hardly!"
     "Why, Jack! This, from you?" Jill seemed highly surprised. "I have it on excellent
authority that I'm a stinker; a halfwitted one, at that. A jelly-brain, with come-hither eyes."
     "You are, and a lot of other things besides." Jack Kinnison did not back up a
millimeter, even before their fathers. "But even at your sapadilliest your half wits are
better than most other people's whole ones; and I never said or thought that your brain
couldn't function, whenever it wanted to, back of those sad eyes. Whatever it takes to be
a Lensman, sir," he turned to Samms, "she's got just as much of as the rest of us.
Maybe more."
     "I take it, then, that there is no objection to her going?" Samms asked.
     There was no objection.
     "What ship shall we take, and when?"
     "The Chicago. Now." Kinnison directed. "She's hot and ready. We didn't strike any
trouble going or coming, so she didn't need much servicing. Flit!"
     They flitted, and the great battleship made the second cruise as uneventfully as
she had made the first. The Chicago's officers and crew knew that the young people left
the vessel separately; that they returned separately, each in his or her lifeboat. They
met, however, not in the control room, but in Jack Kinnison's private quarters; the three
young Lensmen and the girl. The three were embarrassed; ill at ease. The Lenses were-
definitely-not working. No one of them would put his Lens on Jill, since she did not have
one . . . The girl broke the short silence.
     "Wasn't she the most perfectly beautiful thing you ever saw?" she breathed. "In
spite of being over seven feet tall? She looked to be about twenty-except her eyes-but
she must have been a hundred, to know so much-but what are you boys staring so
about?"
     "She!" Three voices blurted as one.
     "Yes. She. Why? I know we weren't together, but I got the impression, some way
or other, that there was only the one. What did you see?"
     All three men started to talk at once, a clamor of noise; then all stopped at once.
     "You first, Spud. Whom did you talk to, and what did he, she, or it say?" Although
Conway Costigan was a few years older than the other three, they all called him by
nickname as a matter of course.
     "National Police Headquarters-Chief of the Detective Bureau," Costigan reported,
crisply. "Between forty three and forty five; six feet and half an inch; one seventy five.
Hard, fine, keen, a Big Time Operator if there ever was one. Looked a lot like your
father, Jill; the same dark auburn hair, just beginning to gray, and the same deep orange-
yellow markings in his eyes. He gave me the works; then took this Lens out of his safe,
snapped it onto my wrist, and gave me two orders-get out and stay out."
     Jack and Mase stared at Costigan, at Jill, and at each other. Then they whistled in
unison.
     "I see this is not going to be a unanimous report, except possibly in one minor
detail," Jill remarked. "Muse, you're next."
     "I landed on the campus of the University of Arisia," Northrop stated, flatly.
"Immense place-hundreds of thousands of students. They took me to the Physics
Department -to the private laboratory of the Department Head him
     self. He had a panel with about a million meters and gauges on it; he scanned and
measured every individual component element of my brain. Then he made a pattern, on a
milling router just about as complicated as his panel. From there on, of course, it was
simple-just like a dentist making a set of china choppers or a metallurgist embedding a
test-section. He snapped a couple of sentences of directions at me, and then said
'Scram!' That's all."
     "Sure that was all?" Costigan asked. "Didn't he add 'and stay scrammed'?"
     "He didn't say it, exactly, but the implication was clear enough."
     "The one point of similarity," Jill commented. "Now you, Jack. You have been
looking as though we were all candidates for canvas jackets that lace tightly up the
back."
     "Uh-uh. As though maybe 1 am. I didn't see anything at all. Didn't even land on the
planet. Just floated around in an orbit inside that screen. The thing I talked with was a
pattern of pure force. This Lens simply appeared on my wrist, bracelet and all, out of thin
air. He told me plenty, though, in a very short time-his last word being for Mme not to
come back or call back."
     "Hm . . . m . . . m." This of Jack's was a particularly indigestible bit, even for Jill
Samms.
     "In plain words," Costigan volunteered, "we all saw exactly what we expected to
see."
     "Uh-uh," Jill denied. "I certainly did not expect to see a woman . . . no; what each
of us saw, I think, was what would do us the most good-give each of us the highest
possible lift. I am wondering whether or not there was anything at all really there."
     "That might be it, at that." Jack scowled in concentration. "But there must have
been something there these Lenses are real. But what makes me mad is that they
wouldn't give you a Lens. You're just as good a man as any one of us-if I didn't know it
wouldn't do a damn bit of good I'd go back there right now and . . . "
     "Don't pop off so, Jack!" Jill's eyes, however, were starry. "I know you mean it,
and I could almost love you, at timesbut I don't need a Lens. As a matter of fact, I'll be
much better off without one."
     "Jet back, Jill!" Jack Kinnison stared deeply into the girl's eyes-but still did not use
his Lens. "Somebody must have done a terrific job of selling, to make you believe that . .
. or are you sold, actually?"
     "Actually. Honestly. That Arisian was a thousand times more of a woman than I
ever will be, and she didn't wear a Lens-never had worn one. Women's minds and
Lenses don't fit. There's a sex-based incompatibility. Lenses are as masculine as
whiskers-and at that, only a very few men can ever wear them, either. Very special men,
like you three and Dad and Pops Kinnison. Men with tremendous force, drive, and scope.
Pure killers, all of you; each in his own way, of course. No more to be stopped than a
glacier, and twice as hard and ten times as cold. A woman simply can't have that kind of
a mind! There is going to be a woman Lensman some day-just one-but not for years and
years; and I wouldn't be in her shoes for anything. In this job of mine, of . . ."
     "Well, go on. What is this job you're so sure you are going to do?"
     "Why, I don't know!" Jill exclaimed, startled eyes wide. "I thought I knew all about
it, but I don't! Do you, about yours?"
     They did not, not one of them; and they were all as surprised at that fact as the
girl had been.
     "Well, to get back to this Lady Lensman who is going to appear some day, I
gather that she is going to be some kind of a freak. She'll have to be, practically,
because of the sex-based fundamental nature of the Lens. Mentor didn't say so, in so
many words, but she made it perfectly clear that. . ."
     "Mentor!" the three men exclaimed.
     Each of them had dealt with Mentorl
     "I am beginning to see," Jill said, thoughtfully. "Mentor. Not a real name at all. To
quote the Unabridged verbatium -- had occasion to look the word up the other day and I
am appalled now at the certainty that there was a connectionquote; Mentor, a wise and
faithful counselor; unquote. Have any of you boys anything to say? I haven't; and I am
beginning to be scared blue."
     Silence fell; and the more they thought, those three young Lensmen and the girl
who was one of the two human women ever to encounter knowingly an Arisian mind, the
deeper that silence became.

     CHAPTER 4

"So you didn't find anything on Nevia." Roderick Kinnison got up, deposited the inch-long
butt of his cigar in an ashtray, lit another, and prowled about the room; hands jammed
deep into breeches pockets. "I'm surprised. Nerado struck me as being a B.T.O. . . . I
thought sure he'd qualify."
     "So did I." Samms' tone was glum. "He's Big Time, and an Operator; but not big
enough, by 'far. I'm-we're bothfinding out that Lensman material is damned scarce stuff.
There's none on Nevia, and no indication whatever that there ever will be any."
     "Tough . . . and you're right, of course, in your stand that we'll have to have
Lensmen from as many different solar systems as possible on the Galactic Council or the
thing won't work at all. So damned much jealousy-which is one reason why we're here in
New York instead of out at The Hill, where we belong-we've found that out already, even
in such a small and comparatively homogeneous group as our own system-the Solarian
Council will not only have to be made up mostly of Lensmen, but each and every
inhabited planet of Sol will have to be represented-even Pluto, I suppose, in time. And by
the way, your Mr. Saunders wasn't any too pleased when you took Knobos of Mars and
DalNalten of Venus away from him and made Lensmen out of them-and put them miles
over his head."
     "Oh, I wouldn't say that . . . exactly. I convinced him . . . but at that, since
Saunders is not Lensman grade himself, it was a trifle difficult for him to understand the
situation completely."
     "You say it easy-`difflcult' is not the word I would use. But back to the Lensman
hunt." Kinnison scowled blackly. "I agree, as I said before, that we need non-human
Lensmen, the more the better, but I don't think much of your chance of finding any. What
makes you think . . . Oh; -I see . . . but I don't know whether you're justified or not in
assuming a high positive correlation between a certain kind of mental ability and
technological advancement."
     "No such assumption is necessary. Start anywhere you please, Rod, and take it
from there; including Nevia."
     "I'll start with known facts, then. Interstellar flight is new to us. We haven't spread
far, or surveyed much territory. But in the eight solar systems with which we are most
familiar there are seven planets-I'm not counting Valerie -which are very much like Earth
in point of mass, size, climate, atmosphere, and gravity. Five of the seven did not have
any intelligent life and were colonized easily and quickly. The Tellurian worlds of Procyon
and Vega became friendly neighbors-thank God we learned something on Nevia --
because they  were already inhabited by highly advanced races: Procia by people as
human as we are, Vegia by people who would be so if it weren't for their tails. Many
other worlds of these systems are inhabited by more or less intelligent non-human races.
Just how intelligent they are we don't know, but the Lensmen will soon find out.
     "My point is that no race we have found so far has had either atomic energy or
any form of space-drive. In any contact with races having space-drives we have not been
the discoverers, but the discovered. Our colonies are all within twenty six light-years of
Earth except Aldebaran II, which is fifty seven, but which drew a lot of people, in spite of
the distance, because it was so nearly identical with Earth. On the other hand, the
Nevians, from a distance of over a hundred light-years, found us . . . implying an older
race and a higher development . . . but you just told me that they would never produce a
Lensman!"
     "Mat point stopped me, too, at first. Follow through; I want to see if you arrive at
the same conclusion I did."
     "Well . . . 1 . . . 1 . . ." Kinnison thought intensely, then went on: "Of course, the
Nevians were not colonizing; nor, strictly speaking, exploring. They were merely hunting
for iron-a highly organized, intensively specialized operation to find a raw material they
needed desperately."
     "Precisely," Sammy agreed.
     "The Rigellians, however, were surveying, and Rigel is about four hundred and
forty light-years from here. We didn't have a thing they needed or wanted. They nodded
at us in passing and kept on going. I'm still on your track?"
     "Dead center. And just where does that put the Palainians?"
     "I see . . . you may have something there, at that. Palain is so far away that
nobody knows even where it is-probably
     thousands of light-years. Yet they have not only explored this system; they
colonized Pluto long before our white race colonized America. But damn it, Virge, I don't
like it -any part of it. Rigel Four you may be able to take, with your Lens . . . even one of
their damned automobiles, if you stay solidly en rapport with the driver. But Palain, Virge!
Pluto is bad enough, but the home planet! You cant. Nobody can. It simply can't be
done!"
     "I know it won't be easy," Sammy admitted, bleakly, "but if it's got to be done, I'll
do it. And I have a little information that I haven't had time to tell you yet. We discussed
once before, you remember, what a job it was to get into any kind of communication with
the Palainians on Pluto. You said then that nobody could understand them, and you were
right-then. However, I re-ran those brain-wave tapes, wag my Lens, and could
understand them-the thoughts, that is-as well as though they had been recorded in
precisionist-grade English."
     "What?" Kinnison exclaimed, then fell silent. Sammy remained silent. What they
were thinking of Arisia's Lens cannot be expressed in words.
     "Well, go on," Kinnison finally said. "Give me the rest of it-the stinger that you've
been holding back."
     "The messages---as messages-were clear and plain. The backgrounds, however,
the connotations and implications, were not. Some of their codes and standards seem to
be radically different from ours---so utterly and fantastically different
     that I simply cannot reconcile either their conduct or their ethics with their
obviously high intelligence and their advanced state of development. However, they have
at least some minds of tremendous power, and none of the peculiarities I deduced were
of such a nature as to preclude Lensmanship. Therefore I am going to Pluto; and from
there -I hope-to Palain Seven. If there's a Lensman there, I'll get him."
     "You will, at that," Kinnison paid quiet tribute to what he, better than anyone else,
knew that his friend had.
     "But enough of me-how are you doing?"
     "As well as can be expected at this stage of the game. The thing is developing
along three main lines. First, the pirates. Since that kind of thing is more or less my own
line
     I'm handling it myself, unless and until you find someone bet
     ter qualified. I've got Jack and Costigan working on it now.
     "Second; drugs, vice, and so on. I hope you find somebody
     to take this line over, because, frankly, I'm in over my depth and want to get out.
Knobos and DalNalten are trying to find out if there's anything to the idea that there may
be a planetary, or even inter-planetary, ring involved. Since Sid Fletcher isn't a Lensman I
couldn't disconnect him openly from his job, but he knows a lot about the dope-vice
situation and is working practically full time with the other two.
     "Third; pure-or rather, decidedly impure-politics. The more I studied that subject,
the clearer it became that politics would be the worst and biggest battle of the three.
There are too many angles I don't know a damned thing about, such as what to do about
the succession of foaming, screaming fits your friend Senator Morgan will be throwing
the minute he finds out what our Galactic Patrol is going to do. So I ducked the whole
political line.
     "Now you know as well as I do-better, probably-that Morgan is only the Pernicious
Activities Committee of the North American Senate. Multiply him by the thousands of
others, all over space, who will be on our necks before the Patrol can get its space-legs,
and you will see - that all that stuff will have to be handled by a Lensman who, as well as
being a mighty smooth operator, will have to know all the answers and will have to have
plenty of guts. I've got the guts, but none of the other prime requisites. Jill hasn't,
although she's got everything else. Fairchild, your Relations ace, isn't a Lensman and can
never become one. So you can see quite plainly who has got to handle politics himself."
     "You may be right . . . but this Lensman business comes first . . ." Samms
pondered, then brightened. "Perhaps -- probably -- I can find somebody on this trip-a
Palainian, say-who is better qualified than any of us."
     Kinnison snorted. "If you can, I'll buy you a week in any Venerian relaxerie you
want to name."
     "Better start saving up your credits, then, because from what I already know of
the Palainian mentality such a development is distinctly more than a possibility." Samms
paused, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know whether it would make Morgan and his kind
more rabid or less so to have a non-Solarian entity possess authority in our affairs
political -but at least it would be something new and different. But in spite of what you
said about 'ducking' politics, what have you got Northrop, Jill and Fairchild doing?"
     "Well, we had a couple of discussions. I couldn't give either Jill or Dick orders, of
course . . ."
     "Wouldn't, you mean," Samms corrected.
     "Couldn't," Kinnison insisted. "1M, besides being Yom' daughter and Lens man
grade, had no official connection with either the Triplanetary Service or the Solarian
Patrol. And the Service, including Fairchild, is still Triplanetary; and it will have to stay
Triplanetary until you have found enough Lensmen so that you can spring your twin
surprisesGalactic Council and Galactic Patrol. However, Northrop and Fairchild are
keeping their eyes and ears open and their mouths shut, and Jill is finding out whatever
she can about drugs and so on, as well as the various political angles. They'll report to
you-facts, deductions, guesses, and recommendations-whenever you say the word."
     "Nice work, Rod. Thanks. I think I'll call Jill now, before I go-wonder where she is?
. . . but I wonder . . . with the Lens perhaps telephones are superfluous? I'll try it."
     "JILL!" he thought intensely into his Lens, forming as he did so a mental image of
his gorgeous daughter as he knew her. But he found, greatly to his surprise, that neither
elaboration nor emphasis was necessary'
     "Ouch!" came the almost instantaneous answer, long before his thought was
complete. "Don't think so bard, Dad, it hurts--I almost missed a step." Virgilia was
actually there with him; inside his own mind; in closer touch with him than she had ever
before been. "Back so soon? Shall we report now, or aren't you ready to go to work
yet?"
     "Skipping for the moment your aspersions on my present activities-not quite."
Samms moderated the intensity of his thought to a conversational level. "Just wanted to
check with you. Come in, Rod." In flashing thoughts be brought her up to date. "Jill, do
you agree with what Rod here has just told me?"
     "Yes. Fully. So do the boys."
     "That settles it, then-unless, of course, I can find a more
     capable substitute."
     "Of course-but we will believe that when we see it."
     "Where are you and what are you doing?"
     "Washington, D.C. European Embassy. Dancing with Her
     kimer Herkimer Third, Senator Morgan's Number One secretary. I was going to
make passes at him-in a perfectly lady-like way, of course-but it wasn't necessary. He
thinks he can break down my resistance."
     "Careful, Jill! That kind of stuff . . :'
     "Is very old stuff indeed, Daddy dear. Simple. And Herkimer Herkimer Third isn't
really a menace; he just thinks he is. Take a look û you can, can't you, with your Lens?"
     "Perhaps . . . Oh, yes. I see him as well as you do." Fully en rapport with the girl
as he was, so that his mind received simultaneously with hers any stimulus which she
was willing to share, it seemed as though a keen handsome, deeply tanned face bent
down from a distance of inches toward his own. "But I don't like it a bit-and him even
less."
     "That's because you aren't a girl." Jill giggled mentally. "This is fun; and it won't
hurt him a bit except maybe for a slightly bruised vanity, when I don't fall down flat at his
feet. And I'm learning a lot that he hasn't any suspicion he's giving away."
     "Knowing you, I believe that. But don't . . . that is . . . well, be very careful not to
get your fingers burned. The job isn't worth it-yet."
     "Don't worry, Dad." She laughed unaffectedly. "When it comes to playboys like
this one, I've got millions and skillions and whillions of ohms of resistance. But here
comes Senator Morgan himself, with a fat and repulsive Venerian-he's calling my boy-
friend away from me, with what he thinks is an imperceptible high-sign, into a huddle-and
my olfactory nerves perceive a rich and fruity aroma, as of skunk -so . . . I hate to seem
to be giving a Solarian Councillor the heave-ho but if I want to read what goes on-and I
certainly do-I'll have to concentrate, As soon as you get back give us a call and we'll
report. Take it easy, Dad!"
     "You're the one to be told that, not me. Good hunting, Jill!"
     Samms, still seated calmly at his desk, reached out and pressed a button marked
"GARAGE". His office was on the seventieth floor; the garage occupied level after level
of subbasement. The screen brightened; a keen young face appeared.
     "Good evening, Jim. Will you please send my car up to the Wright Skyway
feeder?"
     "At once, sir. It will be there in seventy five seconds."
     Samms cut off; and, after a brief exchange of thought with Kinnison, went out into
the hall and along it to the "DOWN" shaft. There going free, he stepped through a
doorless, unguarded archway into over a thousand feet of air. Although it was long after
conventional office hours the shaft was still fairly busy, but that made no difference û
inertialess collisions cannot even be felt. He bulleted downward to the sixth floor, where
he brought himself to an instantaneous halt.
     Leaving the shaft, he joined the now thinning crowd hurrying toward the exit. A girl
with meticulously plucked eye
     brows and an astounding hair-do, catching sight of his Lens, took her hands out of
her breeches pockets-skirts went out, as office dress, when up-and-down open-shaft
velocities of a hundred or so miles per hour replaced elevators-nudged her companion,
and whispered excitedly:
     "Look there! Quick! I never saw one close up before, did you? That's him-himself!
First Lensman Samms!"
     At the Portal, the Lensman as a matter of habit held out his car-check, out such
formalities were no longer necessary, or even possible. Everybody knew, or wanted to
be thought of as knowing, Virgil Samms.
     "Stall four sixty five, First Lensman, sir," the uniformed gateman told him, without
even glancing at the extended disk.
     "Thank you, Tom."
     "This way, please, sir, First Lensman," and a youth, teeth gleaming white in a
startlingly black face, strode proudly to the indicated stall and opened the vehicle's door.
     "Thank you, Danny," Samms said, as appreciatively as though he did not know
exactly where his ground-car was.
     He got in. The door jammed itself gently shut. The runabout-a Dillingham eleven-
forty-shot smoothly forward upon its two fat, soft tires. Half-way to the exit archway he
was doing forty; he hit the steeply-banked curve leading into the lofty "street" at ninety.
Nor was there shock or strain. Motorcycle-wise, but automatically, the "Dilly" leaned
against its gyroscopes at precisely the correct angle; the huge low-pressure tires clung
to the resilient synthetic of the pavement as though integral with it. Nor was there any
question of conflicting traffic, for this thoroughfare, six full levels above Varick Street
proper, was not, strictly speaking, a street at all. It had only one point of access, the one
which Samms had used; and only one exit-it was simply and only a feeder into Wright
Skyway, a limited-access superhighway.
     Samms saw, without noting particularly, the maze of traffic-ways of which this
feeder was only one tiny part; a maze which extended from ground-level up to a point
well above even the towering buildings of New York's metropolitan district.
     The way-rose sharply; Samms' right foot went down a little farther; the Dillingham
began to pick up speed. Moving loud-speakers sang to him and yelled and blared at him,
but he did not hear them. Brilliant signs, flashing and flaring all the colors of the
spectrum-sheer triumphs of the electrician's art-blazed in or flamed into arresting words
and
 eye-catching pictures, but he did not see them. Advertising -advertising designed by
experts to sell everything from aardvarks to Martian zyzmol ("bottled ecstacy")-but the
First Lensman was a seasoned big-city dweller. His mind had long since become a
perfect filter, admitting to his consciousness only things which he wanted to perceive:
only so can big-city life be made endurable.
     Approaching the Skyway, he cut in his touring roadlights, slowed down a trifle, and
insinuated his low-flyer into the stream of traffic. Those lights threw fifteen hundred watts
apiece, but there was no glare-polarized lenses and windshields saw to that.
     He wormed his Way over to the left-hand, high-speed lane and opened up. At the
edge of the skyscraper district, where Wright Skyway angles sharply downward to
ground level, Samms' attention was caught and held by something off to his right-a blue-
white, whistling something that hurtled upward into the air. As it ascended it slowed
down; its mono. tone shriek became lower and lower in pitch; its light went down through
the spectrum toward the red. Finally it exploded, with an earth-shaking crash; but the
lightning-like flash of the detonation, instead of vanishing almost instantaneously, settled
itself upon a low-hanging artificial cloud and became a picture and four words-two
bearded faces and "SMITH BROS. COUGH DROPS"!
     "Well, I'll be damned!" Samms spoke aloud chagrined at having been compelled to
listen to and to look at an advertisement. "I thought I had seen everything, but that is
really new!"
     Twenty minutes-fifty miles-later, Samms left the Skyway at a point near what had
once been South Norwalk , Connecticut; an area transformed now into the level square
miles of New York Spaceport.
     New York Spaceport; then, and until the establishment of Prime Base, the biggest
and busiest field in existence upon any planet of Civilization. For New York City, long the
financial and commercial capital of the Earth, had maintained the same dominant position
in the affairs of the Solar System and was holding a substantial lead over her rivals,
Chicago, London, and Stalingrad, in the race for interstellar supremacy.
     And Virgil Samms himself, because of the ever-increasing menace of piracy, had
been largely responsible for the policy of basing the war-vessels of the Triplanetary
Patrol upon each space-field in direct ratio to the size and importance of that field. Hence
he was no stranger in New York
     Spaceport; in fact, master psychologist that he was, he had made it a point to
know by first name practically everyone connected with it.
     No sooner had he turned his Dillingham over to a smiling attendant, however, than
he was accosted by a man whom he had never seen before.
     "Mr. Samms?" the stranger asked.
     "Yes." Samms did not energize his Lens; he had not yet developed either the
inclination or the technique to probe instantaneously every entity who approached him,
upon any pretext whatever, in order to find out what that entity really wanted.
     "I'm Isaacson . . : ' the man paused, as though he bad supplied a world of
information.
     "Yes?" Samms was receptive, but not impressed.
     "Interstellar Spaceways, you know. We've been trying to see you for two weeks,
but we couldn't get past your secretaries, so I decided to buttonhole you here, myself.
But we're just as much alone here as we would be in either one of our offices-yes, more
so. What I want to talk to you about is having our exclusive franchise extended to cover
the outer planets and the colonies."
     "Just a minute, Mr. Isaacson. Surely you know that I no longer have even a
portfolio in the Council; that practically all of my attention is, and for some time to come
will be, directed elsewhere?"
     "Exactly û officially." Isaacson's tone spoke volumes. "But you're still the Boss;
they'll do anything you tell them to. We couldn't try to do business with you before, of
course, but in your present position there is nothing whatever to prevent you from getting
into the biggest thing that will ever be. We are the biggest corporation in existence now,
as you know, and we are still growing-fast. We don't do business in a small way, or with
small men; so here's a check for a million. credits, or I will deposit it to your account . . :'
     "I'm not interested."
     "As a binder," the other went on, as smoothly as though his sentence had not
been interrupted, "with twenty-five mil
     lion more to follow on the day that our franchise goes
     through." ,
     "I'm still not interested."
     "No . . . o . . . o . . . ?" Isaacson studied the Lensman
     narrowly: and Samms, Lens now wide awake, studied the
     entrepreneur. "Well . . . I . . .-while I admit that we want
     you pretty badly, you are smart enough to know that we'll get what we want
anyway, with or without you. With you, though, it will be easier and quicker, so I am
authorized to offer you, besides the twenty six million credits . ." he savored the words
as he uttered them: "twenty two and one-half percent of Spaceways. On today's market
that is worth fifty million credits; ten years from now it will be worth fifty billion. That's my
high bid; that's as high as we can possibly go."
     "I'm glad to hear that-I'm still not interested," and Samms strode away, calling his
friend Kinnison as he did so.
     "Rod? Virgil." He told the story.
     "Whew!" Kinnison whistled expressively. "They're not pikers, anyway, are they?
What a sweet set-up-and you could wrap it up and hand it to them like a pound of coffee
. . ."
     "Or you could, Rod."
     "Could be . . ." The big Lensman ruminated. "But what a hookup! Perfectly
legitimate, and with plenty of precedents -and arguments, of a sort-in its favor. The outer
planets. Then Alpha Centauri and Sirius and Procyon and so oh. Monopoly-all the traffic
will bear. . ."
     "Slavery, you mean!" Samms stormed. "It would hold Civilization back for a
thousand years!"
     "Sure, but what do they care?"
     "That's it . . . and he said-and actually believed-that they would get it without my
help . . . I can't help wondering about that."
     "Simple enough, Virge, when you think about it. He doesn't know yet what a
Lensman is. Nobody does, you know, except Lensmen. It will take some time for that
knowledge to get around . . ."
     "And still longer for it to be believed."
     "Right. But as to the chance of Interstellar Spaceways ever getting the monopoly
they're working for, I didn't think I would have to remind you that it was not entirely by
accident that over half of the members of the Solarian Council are Lensmen, and that any
Galactic Councillor will automatically have to be a Lensman. So go right ahead with what
you started, my boy, and don't give Isaacson and Company another thought. We'll bend
an optic or two in that direction while you are gone."
     "I was overlooking a few things, at that, I guess." Samms sighed in relief as he
entered the main office of the Patrol.
     The line at. the receptionist's desk was fairly short, but even so, Samms was not
allowed to wait. That highly decorative, but far-from-dumb blonde, breaking off in
midsentence her business of the moment, turned on her charm as though it had bean a
battery of floodlights, pressed a stud on her desk, and spoke to the man before her and
to the Lensman:
     "Excuse me a moment, please. First Lensman Samms, sir . . . ?"
     "Yes, Miss Regan?" her communicator-"squawk-box", in every day parlance-broke
in.
     "First Lensman Samms is here, sir," the girl announced, and broke the circuit.
     "Good evening, Sylvia. Lieutenant-Commander Wagner, please, or whoever else
is handling clearances," Samms answered what he thought was to have been her-
question.
     "Oh, no, sir; you are cleared. Commodore Clayton has been waiting for you . . .
here he is, now."
     "Hi, Virgil!" Commodore Clayton, a big solid man with a scarred face and a shock
of iron-gray hair, whose collar bore the two silver stars which proclaimed him to be the
commander-in-chief of a continental contingent of the Patrol, shook hands vigorously. "I'll
zip you out. Miss Regan, call a bug, please."
     "Oh, that isn't necessary, Alex!" Samms protested. "I'll pick one up outside."
     "Not in any Patrol base in North America, my friend; nor, unless I am very badly
mistaken, anywhere else. From now on, Lensmen hive absolute priority, and the quicker
everybody realizes exactly what that means, the better."
     The "bug"-a vehicle something like a jeep, except more so-was waiting at the
door. The two men jumped aboard.
     "The Chicago-and blast!" Clayton ordered, crisply.
     The driver obeyed-literally. Gravel flew from beneath skidding tires as the highly
maneuverable little ground-car took off. A screaming turn into the deservedly famous
Avenue of Oaks. Along the Avenue. Through the Gate, the guards saluting smartly as the
bug raced past them. Past the barracks. Past the airport hangars and strips. Out into the
space-field, the scarred arid blackened area devoted solely to the widely-spaced docks
of the tremendous vessels which plied the vacuous reaches of interplanetary and
interstellar space. Spacedocks were, and are, huge and sprawling structures; built of
concrete and steel and asbestos and ultra-stubborn refractory and insulation and
vacuum-breaks; fully air-conditioned and having refrigeration equipment of thousands of
tons per hour of ice; designed not only to expedite servicing, unloading, and loading, but
also to protect materials and personnel from the raving, searing blasts of takeoff and of
landing.
     A space-dock is a squat and monstrous cylinder, into whose hollow top the
lowermost one-third of a space-ship's bulk fits as snugly as does a baseball into the
"pocket" of a veteran fielder's long-seasoned glove. And the tremendous distances
between those docks minimize the apparent size, both of the structures themselves and
of the vessels surmounting them. Thus, from a distance, the Chicago looked little
enough, and harmless enough; but as the bug flashed under the overhanging bulk and the
driver braked savagely to a stop at one of the dock's entrances, Samms could scarcely
keep from flinching. That featureless, gray, smoothly curving wall of alloy steel loomed so
incredibly high above them--extended so terrifyingly far outward beyond its visible means
of support! It must be on the very verge of crashing!
     Samms stared deliberately at the mass of metal towering above him, then smiled-
not without effort-at his companion.
     "You'd think, Alex, that a man would get over being afraid that a ship was going to
fall on him, but I haven't-yet."
     "No, and you probably never will. I never have, and I'm one of the old bands.
Some claim not to mind it-but not in front of a lie detector. That's why they had to make
the passenger docks bigger than the liners-too many passengers fainted and had to be
carried aboard on stretchers-or cancelled passage entirely. However, scaring hell out of
them on the ground had one big advantage; they felt so safe inside that they didn't get
the colly-wobbles so bad when they went free."
     "Well, I've got over that, anyway. Good-bye, Alex; and thanks."
     Samms entered the dock, shot smoothly upward, followed an escorting officer to
the captain's own cabin, and settled himself into a cushioned chair facing an ultra-wave
viewplate. A face appeared upon his communicator screen and spoke.
     "Winfield to First Lensman Samms-you will be ready to blast off at twenty one
hundred?"
     "Samms to Captain Winfield," the Lensman replied. "I will be ready."
     Sirens yelled briefly; a noise which Samms knew was purely a formality.
Clearance had been issued; Station PIXNY was filling the air with warnings. Personnel
and material close enough to the Chicago's dock to be affected by the blast were under
cover and safe.
     The blast went on; the plate showed, instead of a view of the space-field, a blaze
of blue-white light. The warship was inertialess, it is true; but so terrific were the forces
released that incandescent gases, furiously driven, washed the dock and everything for
hundreds of yards around it.
     The plate cleared. Through the lower, denser layers of atmosphere the Chicago
bored in seconds; then, as the air grew thinner and thinner, she rushed upward faster
and faster. The terrain below became concave . . . then convex. Being completely
without inertia, the ship's velocity was at every instant that at which the friction of the
medium through which she blasted her way equaled precisely the force of her driving
thrust.
     Wherefore, out in open space, the Earth a fast-shrinking tiny ball and Sol himself
growing smaller, paler, and weaker at a startling rate, the Chicago's speed attained an
almost constant value; a value starkly impossible for the, human mind to grasp.

     CHAPTER 5

For hours Virgil Samms sat motionless, staring almost unseeing into his plate. It was not
that the view was not worth seeing-the wonder of space, the ever-changing, constantly-
shifting panorama of incredibly brilliant although dimensionless points of light, against that
wondrous background of mist-besprinkled black velvet, is a thing that never fails to awe
even the most seasoned observer-but he had a tremendous load on his mind. He had to
solve an apparently insoluble problem. How . . . how . . . HOW could he do what he had
to do?
     Finally, knowing that the time of landing was approaching, be got up, unfolded his
fans, and swam lightly through the air of the cabin to a band-line, along which he drew
himself into the control room. He could have made the trip in that room, of course, if he
had so chosen; but, knowing that officers of space do not really like to have strangers in
that sanctum, he did not intrude until it was necessary.
     Captain Winfield was already strapped down at his master conning plate. Pilots,
navigators, and computers worked busily at their respective tasks.
     "I was just going to call you, First Lensman." Winfield waved a hand in the general
direction of a chair near his own. "Take the Lieutenant-Captain's station, please." Then,
after a few minutes: "Go inert, Mr. White."
     "Attention, all personnel," Lieutenant-Captain White spoke conversationally into a
microphone. "Prepare for inert maneuvering, Class Three. Off."
     A bank of tiny red lights upon a panel turned green practically as one. White cut
the Bergenholm, whereupon Virgil Samms' mass changed instantly from a weight of zero
to one of five hundred and twenty five pounds-ships of war then had no space to waste
upon such non-essentials as artificial gravity. Although he was braced for the change and
cushioned against it, the Lensman's breath whooshedl out sharply; but, being intensely
interested in what was going on, he swallowed convulsively a couple of times, gasped a
few deep breaths, and fought his way back up to normalcy.
     The Chief Pilot was now at work, with all the virtuoso's skill of his rank and grade;
one of the hall-marks of which is to make difficult tasks look easy. He played trills and
runs and arpeggios-at times veritable glissades-upon keyboards and pedals, directing
with micrometric precision the tremendous forces of the superdreadnaught to the task of
matching the intrinsic velocity of New York Spaceport at the time of his departure to the
I. V. of the surface of the planet so far below.
     Samms stared into his plate; first at the incredibly tiny apparent size of that
incredibly hot sun, and then at the barren-looking world toward which they were dropping
.at such terrific speed.
     "It doesn't seem possible . . ." he remarked, half to Winfield, half to himself, "that
a sun could be that big and that hot. Rigel Four is almost two hundred times as far away
from it as Earth is from Sol-something like eighteen billion miles-it doesn't look much, if
any, bigger than Venus does from Luna-yet this world is hotter than the Sahara Desert."
     "Well, blue giants are both big and hot," the captain replied, matter-of-factly, "and
their radiation, being mostly invisible, is deadly stuff. And Rigel is about the biggest in this
region. There are others a lot worse, though. Doradus S, for instance, would make Rigel,
here, look like a tallow candle. I'm going out there, some of these days, just to take a
look at it. But that's enough of astronomical chit-chat-we're down to twenty miles of
altitude and we've got your city just about stopped."
     The Chicago slowed gently to a halt; perched motionless upon softly hissing jets.
Samms directed his visibeam downward and sent along it an exploring, questing thought.
Since he had never met a Rigellian in person, he could not form the mental image or
pattern necessary to become en rapport with any one individual of the race. He did
know, however, the type of mind which must be possessed by the entity with whom he
wished to talk, and he combed the Rigellian city until he found one. The rapport was so
incomplete and imperfect as to amount almost to no contact at all, but he could, perhaps,
make himself understood.
     "If you will excuse this possibly unpleasant and certainly unwarranted intrusion," he
thought, carefully and slowly, "I would like very much to discuss with you a matter which
should become of paramount importance to all the intelligent peoples of all the planets in
space."
     "I welcome you, Tellurian." Mind fused with mind at every one of uncountable
millions of points and paths. This Rigellian professor of sociology, standing at his desk,
was physically a monster . . . the oil-drum of a body, the four blocky legs, the mufti-
branchiate tentacular arms, that immobile dome of a head, the complete lack of eyes and
of ears . . . nevertheless Samms' mind fused with the monstrosity's as smoothly, as
effortlessly, and almost as completely as it had with his own daughter's!
     And what a mind! The transcendent poise; the staggeringly tremendous range and
scope-the untroubled and unshakeable calm; the sublime quietude; the vast and placid
certainty; the ultimate stability, unknown and forever unknowable to any human or near-
human race!
     "Dismiss all thought of intrusion, First Lensman Samms . . . I have heard of you
human beings, of course, but have never considered seriously the possibility of meeting
one of you mind to mind. Indeed, it was reported that none of our minds could make any
except the barest and most unsatisfactory contact with any of yours they chanced to
encounter. It is, I now perceive, the Lens which makes this full accord possible, and it is
basically about the Lens that you are here?"
     "It is," and Samms went on to cover in flashing thoughts his conception of what the
Galactic Patrol should be and should become. That was easy enough; but when he tried
to describe in detail the qualifications necessary for Lensmanship, he began to bog
down. "Force, drive, scope, of course . . . range . . . power . . . but above all, an
absolute integrity . . . an ultimate incorruptibility . . ." He could recognize such a mind
after meeting it and studying it, but as to finding it . . . It might not be in any place of
power or authority. His own, and Rod Kinnison's, happened to be; but Costigan's was not
. . . and both Knobos and DalNalten had made inconspicuousness a fine art . . .
     "I see," the native stated, when it became clear that Samms could say no more.
"It is evident, of course, that I cannot qualify; nor do I know anyone personally who can.
However. . ."
     "What?" Samms demanded. "I was sure, from the feel of your mind, that you . . .
but with a mind of such depth and breadth, such tremendous scope and power, you must
be incorruptible!"
     "I am," came the dry rejoinder. "We all are. No Rigellian is, or ever will be or can
be, what you think of as `corrupt' or `corruptible'. Indeed, it is only by the narrowest,
most intense concentration upon every line of your thought that I can translate your
meaning into a concept possible for any of us even to understand."
     "Then what . . . Oh, I see. I was starting at the wrong end. Naturally enough, I
suppose, I looked first for the qualities rarest in my own race."
     "Of course. Our minds have ample scope and range; and, perhaps, sufficient
power. But those qualities which you refer to as `force' and `drive' are fully as rare
among us as absolute mental integrity is among you. What you know as `crime' is
unknown. We have no police, no government, no laws, no organized armed forces of any
kind. We take, practically always, the line of least resistance. We live and let live, as
your thought runs. We work together for the common good."
     "Well . . . I don't know what I expected to find here, but certainly not this . . ." If
Samms had never before been completely thunderstruck, completely at a loss, he was
then. "You don't think, then, that there is any chance?"
     "I have been thinking, and there may be a chance . . . a slight one, but still a
chance," the Rigellian said, slowly. "For instance, that youth, so full of curiosity, who first
visited your planet. Thousands of us have wondered, to ourselves and to each other,.
about the peculiar qualities of mind which compelled him and others to waste so much
time, effort,
     and wealth upon a project so completely useless as exploration. Why, he had
even to develop energies and engines theretofore unknown, and which can never be of
any real use!"
     Samms was shaken by the calm finality with which the Rigellian dismissed all
possibility of the usefulness of interstellar exploration, but stuck doggedly to his purpose.
     "However slight the chance, I must find and talk to this man. I suppose he is now
out in deep space somewhere. Have you any idea where?"
     "He is now in his home city, accumulating funds and manufacturing fuel with which
to continue his pointless activities. That city is named . . that is, in your English you might
call it . . . Suntown? Sunberg? No, it must be more specific . . . Rigelsville? Rigel City?"
     "Rigelston, I would translate it?" Samms hazarded.
     "Exactly-Rigelston." The professor marked its location upon a globular mental map
far more accurate and far more detailed than the globe which Captain Winfield and his
lieutenant were then studying.
     "Thanks. Now, can you and will you get in touch with this explorer and ask him to
call a meeting of his full crew and any others who might be interested in the project I
have outlined?"
     "I can. I will. He and his kind are not quite sane, of course, as you know; but I do
not believe that even they are so insane as to be willing to subject themselves to the
environment of your vessel."
     "They will not be asked to come here. The meeting will be held in Rigelston. If
necessary, I shall insist that it be held there."
     "You would? I perceive that you would. It is strange . . . yes, fantastic . . . you are
quarrelsome, pugnacious, antisocial, vicious, small-bodied and small-brained; timid,
nervous, and highly and senselessly excitable; unbalanced and unsane; as sheerly
monstrous mentally as you are physically . . ." These outrageous thoughts were sent as
casually and as impersonally as though the sender were discussing the weather. He
paused, then went on: "And yet, to further such a completely visionary project, you are
eager to subject yourself to conditions whose counterparts I could not force myself,
under any circumstances whatever, to meet. It may be . . . it must be true that there is
an extension of the principle of working together for the common good which my mind,
for lack of pertinent data, has not been able to grasp. I am now en rapport with Dronvire
the explorer."
 "Ask him, please, not to identify himself to me. I do not want to go into that meeting with
any preconceived ideas."
     "A balanced thought," the Rigellian approved. "Someone will be at the airport to
point out to you the already desolated area in which the space-ship of the explorers
makes its so frightful landings; Dronvire will ask someone to meet you at the airport and
bring you to the place of meeting."
     The telepathic line snapped and Samms turned a white and sweating face to the
Chicago's captain.
     "God, what a strain! Don't ever try telepathy unless you positively have to-
especially not with such an outlandishly different race as these Rigellians are!"
     "Don't worry; I won't." Winfield's words were not at all sympathetic, but his tone
was. "You looked as though somebody was beating your brains out with a spiked club.
Where next, First Lensman?"
     Samms marked the location of Rigelston upon the vessel's chart, then donned
ear-plugs and a special, radiation-proof suit of armor, equipped with refrigerators and
with extra-thick blocks of lead glass to protect the eyes.
     The airport, an extremely busy one well outside the city proper, was located
easily enough, as was the spot upon which the Tellurian ship was to land. Lightly, slowly,
she settled downward, her jets raving out against a gravity fully twice that of her native
Earth. Those blasts, however, added little or nothing to the destruction already
accomplished by the craft then lying there -a torpedo-shaped cruiser having perhaps
one-twentieth of the Chicago's mass and bulk.
     The superdreadnaught landed, sinking into the hard, dry ground to a depth of
some ten or fifteen feet before she stopped. Samms, en rapport with the entity who was
to be his escort, made a flashing survey of the mind so intimately in contact with his own.
No use. This one was not and never could become Lensman material. He climbed heavily
down the ladder. This double-normal gravity made the going a bit difficult, but he could
stand that a lot better than some of the other things he was going to have to take. The
Rigellian equivalent of an automobile was there, waiting for him, its door invitingly open.
     Samms had known-in general-what to expect. The two-wheeled chassis was
more or less similar to that of his own Dillingham. The body was a narrow torpedo of
steel, bluntly pointed at both ends, and without windows. Two features, however, were
both unexpected and unpleasant-the hard, tough steel of which that body was forged
was an inch and a
     half thick, instead of one-sixteenth; and even that extraordinarily armored body
was dented and scarred and marred, especially about the fore and rear quarters, as
deeply and as badly and as casually as are the fenders of an Earthly jalopy!
     The Lensman climbed, not easily or joyously, into that grimly forbidding black
interior. Black? It was so black that the port-hole-like doorway seemed to admit no light
at all. It was blacker than a witch's cat in a coal cellar at midnight! Samms flinched; then,
stiffening, thought at the driver.
     "My contact with you seems to have slipped. I'm afraid that I will have to cling to
you rather more tightly than may be either polite or comfortable. Deprived of sight, and
without your sense of perception, I am practically helpless."
     "Come in, Lensman, by all means. I offered to maintain full engagement, but it
seemed to me that you declined it; quite possibly the misunderstanding was due to our
unfamiliarity with each others' customary mode of thought. Relax, please, and come in . .
. there! Better?"
     "Infinitely better. Thanks."
     And it was. The darkness vanished; through the unexplainable perceptive sere of
the Rigellian he could "see" everything-he had a practically perfect three-dimensional
view of the entire circumambient sphere. He could see both the inside and the outside of
the ground car he was in and of the immense space-ship in which he had come to Rigel
N. He could see the bearings and the wrist-pins of the internal-combustion engine of the
car, the interior structure of the welds that held the steel plates together, the busy airport
outside, and even deep into the ground. He could- see and study in detail the deepest-
buried, most heavily shielded parts of the atomic engines of the Chicago.
     But he was wasting time. He could also plainly see a deeply-cushioned chair,
designed to fit a human body, welded to a stanchion and equipped with half a dozen
padded restraining straps. He sat down quickly; strapped himself in.
     "Ready?"
     "Ready."
     The door banged shut with a clangor which burst through space-suit and ear-plugs
with all the violence of a nearby thunderclap. And that was merely the beginning. The
engine started-an internal-combustion engine of well over a thousand horsepower,
designed for maximum efficiency by engineers in whose lexicon there were no
counterparts of any English words relating to noise, or even to sound. The car
 took off; with an acceleration which drove the Tellurian backward, deep into the
cushions. The scream of tortured tires and the crescendo bellowing of the engine
combined to form an uproar which, amplified by and reverberating within the resonant
shell of metal, threatened to addle the very brain inside the Lensman's skull.
     "You suffer!" the driver exclaimed, in high concern. "They cautioned me to start
and stop gently, to drive slowly and carefully, to bump softly. They told me you are frail
and fragile, a fact which I perceived for myself and which has caused me to drive with
the utmost possible care and restraint. Is the fault mine? Have I been too rough?"
     "Not at all. It isn't that. It's the ungodly noise." Then, realizing that the Rigellian
could have no conception of his meaning, he continued quickly:
     "The vibrations in the atmosphere, from sixteen cycles per second up to about
nine or ten thousand." He explained what a second was. "My nervous system is very
sensitive to those
     *vibrations. But I expected them and shielded myself against them as adequately
as I could. Nothing can be done about them. Go ahead."
     "Atmospheric vibrations? Atmospheric vibrations? Atmospheric vibrations?" The
driver marveled, and concentrated upon this entirely new concept while he
     1. Swung around a steel-sheathed concrete pillar at a speed of at least sixty miles
per hour, grazing it so closely that he removed one layer of protective coating from the
metal.
     2. Braked so savagely to miss a wildly careening truck that the restraining straps
almost cut Samms' body, spacesuit and all, into slices.
     3. Darted into a hole in the traffic so narrow that only tiny fractions of inches
separated his hurtling Juggernaut from an enormous steel column on one side and
another speeding vehicle on the other.
     4. Executed a double-right-angle reverse curve, thus missing by hair's breadths
two vehicles traveling in the opposite direction and one in his own.
     5. As a grand climax to this spectacular exhibition of insane driving, he plunged at
full speed into a traffic artery which seemed so full already that it could not hold even one
more car. But it could-just barely could. However, instead of near misses or grazing hits,
this time there were bumps, dents-little ones, nothing at all, really, only an inch or so
deep-and an utterly hellish concatenation and concentration of noise.
     "I fail completely to understand what effect such vibrations could have," the
Rigellian announced finally, sublimely unconscious that anything at all out of the ordinary
had occurred. For him, nothing had. "But surely they cannot be of any use?"
     "Oh this world, I am afraid not. No," Samms admitted, wearily. "Here, too,
apparently, as everywhere, the big cities are choking themselves to death with their own
traffic."
     "Yes. We build and build, but never have roads enough."
     "What are those mounds along the streets?" For some time Samms had been
conscious of those long, low, apparently opaque structures; attracted to them because
they were the only non-transparent objects within range of the Rigellian's mind. "Or is it
something I should not mention?"
     "What?-Oh, those? By no means."
     One of the near-by mounds lost its opacity. It was filled with swirling, gyrating
bands and streamers of energy so vivid and so solid as to resemble fabric; with wildly
hurtling objects of indescribable shapes and contours; with brilliantly flashing symbols
which Samms found, greatly to his surprise, made sense-not through the Rigellian's mind,
but through his own Lens:
     "EAT TEEGMEE'S FOOD!"
     "Advertising!" Samms' thought was a snort.
     "Advertising. You do not perceive yours, either, as you drive?" This was the first
bond to be established between two of the most highly advanced races of the First
Galaxy!
     The frightful drive continued; the noise grew worse and worse. Imagine, if you
can, a city of fifteen millions of people, throughout whose entire length, breadth, height,
and depth no attempt whatever had ever been made to abate any noise, however violent
or piercing! If your imagination has been sufficiently vivid and if you have worked
understandingly enough, the product may approximate what First Lensman Samms was
forced to listen to that day.
     Through ever-thickening traffic, climbing to higher and ever higher roadways
between towering windowless walls of steel, the massive Rigellian automobile barged
and banged its way. Finally it stopped, a thousand feet or so above the ground, beside a
building which was still under construction. The heavy door clanged open. They got out.
     And then-it chanced to be daylight at the time-Samms saw a tangle, of fighting,
screaming colors whose like no entity possessing the sense of sight had ever before
imagined. Reds, yellows, blues, greens, purples, and every variation and
 inter-mixture possible; laid on or splashed on or occurring naturally at perfect random,
smote his eyes as violently as the all-pervading noise had been assailing his ears.
     He realized then that through his guide's sense of perception he had been "seeing"
only in shades of gray, that to these people "visible" light differed only in wave-length
from any other band of the complete electromagnetic spectrum of vibration.
     Strained and tense, the Lensman followed his escort along a narrow catwalk,
through a wall upon which riveters and welders were busily at work, into a room
practically without walls and ceiled only by story after story of huge I-beams. Yet this
was the meeting-place; almost a hundred Rigellians were assembled there!
     And as Samms walked toward the group a craneman dropped a couple of tons of
steel plate, from a height of eight or ten feet, upon the floor directly behind him.
     "I just about jumped right out of my armor," is the way Samms himself described
his reactions; and that description is perhaps as good as any.
     At any rate, he went briefly out of control, and the Rigellian sent him a steadying,
inquiring, wondering thought. He could no more understand the Tellurian's sensitivity than
Samms could understand the fact that to these people, even the concept of physical
intrusion was absolutely incomprehensible. These builders were not workmen, in the
Tellurian sense. They were Rigellians, each working his few hours per week for the
common good. They would be no more in contact with the meeting than would their
fellows on the other side of the planet.
     Samms closed his eyes to the riot of clashing colors, deafened himself by main
strength to the appalling clangor of sound, forced himself to concentrate every fiber of his
mind upon his errand.
     "Please synchronize with my mind, as many of you as possible," he thought at the
group as a whole, and went en- rapport with mind after mind after mind. And mind after
mind after mind lacked something. Some were stronger than others, had more initiative
and drive and urge, but none would quite do. Until
     "Thank God!" In the wave of exultant relief, of fulfillment, Samms no longer saw
the colors or heard the din. "You, sir, are of Lensman grade. I perceive that you are
Dronvire."
     "Yes, Virgil Samms, I am Dronvire; and at long last I know what it is that I have
been seeking all my life. But
     how of these, my other friends? /Are not some of them . . . ?"
     "I do not know, nor is it necessary that I find out. You will select . . ." Samms
paused, amazed. The other Rigellians were still in the room, but mentally, he and
Dronvire were completely alone.
     "They anticipated your thought, and, knowing that it was to be more or less
personal, they left us until one of us invites them to return."
     "I like that, and appreciate it. You will go to Arisia. You will receive your Lens. You
will return here. You will select and send to Arisia as many or as few of your fellows as
you choose. These things I require you, by the Lens of Arisia, to do. Afterward please
note that this is in no sense obligatory-I would like very much to have you visit Earth and
accept appointment to the Galactic Council. Will you?"
     "I will." Dronvire needed no time to consider his decision.
     The meeting was dismissed. The same entity who had been Samms' chauffeur on
the in-bound trip drove him back to the Chicago, driving as "slowly" and as "carefully" as
before. Nor, this time, did the punishment take such toll, even though Samms knew that
each terrific lunge and lurch was adding one more bruise to the already much-too-large
collection discoloring almost every square foot of his tough hide. He had succeeded, and
the thrill of success had its usual analgesic effect.
     The Chicago's captain met him in the air-lock and helped him remove his suit.
     "Are you sure you're all right, Samms?" Winfield was no longer the formal captain,
but a friend. "Even though you didn't call, we were beginning to wonder . . . you look as
though you'd been to a Valerian clambake, and I sure as hell don't like the way you're
favoring those ribs and that left leg. I'll tell the boys you got back in A-prime shape, but
I'll have the doctors look you over, just to make sure."
          Winfield made the announcement, and through his Lens
Samms could plainly feel the wave of relief and pleasure
that spread throughout the great ship with the news. It surprised him immensely. Who
was he, that all these boys
should care so much whether he lived or died?
     "I'm perfectly all right," Samms protested. "There's nothing at all the matter with
me that twenty hours of sleep won't fix as good as new."
     "Maybe; but you'll go to the sick-bay first, just the same," Winfield insisted. "And I
suppose you want me to blast back to Tellus?"
 "Right. And fast. The Ambassadors' Ball is next Tuesday evening, you know, and that's
one function I can't stay away from, even with a Class A Double Prime excuse."

     CHAPTER 6

The Ambassadors' Ball, one of the most ultra-ultra functions of the year, was well under
way. It was not that everyone who was anyone was there; but everyone who was there
was, in one way or another, very emphatically someone. Thus, there were affairs at
which there were more young and beautiful women, and more young and handsome
men; but none exhibiting newer or more expensive gowns, more ribbons and decorations,
more or costlier or more refined jewelry, or a larger acreage of powdered and perfumed
epidermis.
     And even so, the younger set was well enough represented. Since pioneering
appeals more to youth than to age, the men representing the colonies were young; and
their wives, together with the daughters and the second (or third or fourth, or
occasionally the fifth) wives of the human personages practically balanced the account.
     Nor was the throng entirely human. The time had not yet come, of course, when
warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing monstrosities from hundreds of other solar systems
would vie in numbers with the humanity present. There were, however, a few Martians on
the floor, wearing their light "robes du convention" and dancing with meticulously
mathematical precision. A few Venerians, who did not dance, sat in state or waddled
importantly about. Many worlds of the Solarian System, and not a few other systems,
were represented.
     One couple stood out, even against that opulent and magnificent background.
Byes followed them wherever they went.
     The girl was tall, trim, supple; built like a symphony. Her Callistan vexto-silk gown,
of the newest and most violent shade of "radioactive" green, was phosphorescently
luminous; fluorescent; gleaming and glowing. Its hem swept the floor, but above the waist
it vanished mysteriously except for wisps which clung to strategic areas here and there
with
     no support, apparently, except the personal magnetism of the wearer. She,
almost alone of all the women there, wore no flowers. Her only jewelry was a rosette of
huge, perfectly-matched emeralds, perched precariously upon her bare left shoulder. Her
hair, unlike the other womens' flawless coiffures, was a flamboyant, artistically-
disarranged, red-bronze-auburn mop. Her soft and dewy eyes-Virgilia Samms could
control her eyes as perfectly as she could her highly educated hands-were at the
moment gold-flecked, tawny wells of girlish innocence and trust.
     "But I can't give you this next dance, too, HerkimerHonestly I can't!" she pleaded,
snuggling just a trifle closer into the embrace of the young man who was just as much
man, physically, as she was woman. "I'd just love to, really, but I just simply can't, and
you know why, too."
     "You've got some duty-dances, of course . . ."
     "Some? I've got a list as long as from here to there! Senator Morgan first, of
course, then Mr. Isaacson, then I sat one out with Mr. Ossmen-I can't stand Venerians,
they're so slimy and fat and repulsive!-and that leathery horned toad from Mars and that
Jovian hippopotamus . . ."
     She went down the list, and as she named or characterized each entity another
finger of her left hand pressed down upon the back of her partner's right, to emphasize
the count of her social obligations. But those talented fingers were doing more-far, far
more-than that.
     Herkimer Herkimer Third, although no little of a Don Juan, was a highly polished,
smoothly finished, thoroughly seasoned diplomat. As such, his eyes and his other
features û particularly his eyes-had been schooled for years to reveal no trace of
whatever might be going on inside his brain. If he had entertained any suspicion of the
beautiful girl in his arms, if anyone had suggested that she was trying her best to pump
him, be would have smiled the sort of smile which only the top-drawer diplomat can
achieve. He was not suspicious of Virgilia Samms. However, simply because she was
Virgil Samms' daughter, he took an extra bit of pain to betray no undue interest in any
one of the names she recited. And besides, she was not looking at his eyes, nor even at
his face. Her glance, demurely downcast, was all too rarely raised above the level of his
chin.
     There were some things, however, that Herkimer Herkimer Third did not know.
That Virgilia Samms was the most accomplished muscle-reader of her times. That she
was so close to him, not because of his manly charm, but because
 only in that position could she do her prodigious best. That she could work with her eyes
alone, but in emergencies, when fullest possible results were imperative, she had to use
her exquisitely sensitive fingers and her exquisitely tactile skin. That she had studied
intensively, and had tabulated the reactions of, each of the entities on her list. That she
was now, with his help, fitting those reactions into a pattern. And finally, that that pattern
was beginning to assume the grim shape of MURDER!
     And Virgilia Samms, working now for something far more urgent and vastly more
important than a figmental Galactic Patrol, hoped desperately that this Herkimer was not
a muscle-reader too; for she knew that she was revealing her secrets even more
completely than was he. In fact, if things got much worse, he could not help but feel the
pounding of her heart . . . but she could explain that easily enough, by a few appropriate
wiggles . . . No, he wasn't a reader, definitely not. He wasn't watching the right places;
he was looking where that gown had been designed to make him look, and nowhere else
. . . and no tell-tale muscles lay beneath any part of either of his hands.
     As her eyes and her fingers and her lovely torso sent more and more information
to her keen brain, Jill grew more and more anxious. She was sure that murder was
intended, but who was to be the victim? Her father? Probably. Pops Kinnison? Possibly.
Somebody else? Barely possibly. And when? And where? And how? She didn't know!
And she would have to be sure . . . Mentioning names hadn't been enough, but a
personal appearance . . . Why didn't dad show up-or did she wish he wouldn't come at
all . . . ?
     Virgil Samms entered the ballroom.
     "And dad told me, Herkimer," she cooed sweetly, gazing up into his eyes for the
first time in over a minute, "that I must dance with every one of them. So you see . . .
Oh, there he is now, over there! I've been wondering where be's been keeping himself."
She nodded toward the entrance and prattled on artlessly. "He's almost never late, you
know, and I've . . ."
     He looked, and as his eyes met those of the First Lensman, Jill learned three of
the facts she needed so badly to know. Her father. Here. Soon. She never knew how
she managed to keep herself under control; but, some way and just barely, she did.
     Although nothing showed, she was seething inwardly: wrought up as she had
never before been. What could she
     do? She knew, but she did not have a scrap or an iota of visible or tangible
evidence; and if she made one single slip, however slight, the consequences could be
immediate and disastrous.
     After this dance might be too late. She could make an excuse to leave the floor,
but that would look very bad, later . . . and none of them would Lens her, she knew,
while she was with Herkimer-damn such chivalry! . . . She could take the chance of
waving at her father, since she hadn't seen him for so long . . . no, the smallest risk
would be with Mase. He looked at her every chance he got, and she'd make him use his
Lens . . .
     Northrop looked at her; and over Herkimer's shoulder, for one fleeting instant, she
allowed her face to reveal the terrified appeal she so keenly felt.
     "Want me, Jill?" His Lensed thought touched only the outer fringes of her mind.
Full rapport is more intimate than a kiss: no one except her father had ever really put a
Lens on Virgilia Samms. Nevertheless:
     "Want you! I never wanted anybody so much in my life! Come in, Mase û quick û
please!"
     Diffidently enough, he came; but at the first inkling of the girl's news all thought of
diffidence or of privacy vanished.
     "Jack! Spud! Mr. Kinnison, Mr. Samms!" he Lensed sharp, imperative, almost
frantic thoughts. "Listen in!"
     "Steady, Mase, I'll take over," came Roderick Kinnison's deeper, quieter mental
voice. "First, the matter of guns. Anybody except me wearing a pistol? You are, Spud?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "You would be. But you and Mase, Jack?"
     "We've got our Lewistons!"
     "You would have. Wasters, my sometimes-not-quite-so-bright son, are fine
weapons indeed for certain kinds of work. In emergencies, it is of course permissible to
kill a few dozen innocent bystanders. In such a crowd as this, though, it is much better
technique to kill only the one you are aiming at. So skip out to my car, you two, right
now, and change û and make it fast." Everyone knew that Roderick Kinnison's car was at
all times an arsenal on wheels. "Wish you were in uniform, too, Virge, but it can't be
helped now. Work your way-slowly-around to the northwest corner. Spud, do the same."
     "It's impossible-starkly unthinkable!" and "I'm not sure of anything, really . . ."
Samms and his daughter began simultaneously to protest.
     "Virgil, you talk like a man with a paper nose. Keep still until after you've used your
brain. And I'm sure enough of what you know, Jill, to take plenty of steps. You can relax
now-take it easy. We're covering Virgil and I called up support in force. You can relax a
little, I see. Good! I'm not trying to hide from anybody that the next few minutes may be
critical. Are you pretty sure, Jill, that Herkimer is a key man?"
     "Pretty sure, Pops." How much better she felt, now that the Lensmen were on
guard! "In this one case, at least."
     "Good! Then let hurl talk you into giving him every dance, right straight through
until something breaks. Watch him. He must know the signal and who is going to operate,
and if you can give us a fraction of a second of warning it will help no end. Can do?"
     "I'll say I can-and I would love to, the big, slimy, stinking skinker!" As transliterated
into words, the girl's thought may seem a trifle confused, but Kinnison knew exactly what
she meant.
     "One more thing, Jill; a detail. The boys are coming back in and are working their
partners over this way. See if Herkimer notices that they have changed their holsters."
     "No, he didn't notice," Jill reported, after a moment. "But I don't notice any
difference, either, and I'm looking for it."
     "Nevertheless, it's there, and the difference between a Mark Seventeen and a
Mark Five is something more than that between Tweedledum and Tweedledee," Kinnison
returned, dryly. "However, it may not be as obvious to non-military personnel as it is to
us. That's far enough, boys, don't get too close. Now,, Virge, keep solidly en rapport with
Jill on one side and with us on -the other, so that she won't have to give herself and the
show away by yelling and pointing, and . . :'
     "But this is preposterous!" Samms stormed.
     "Preposterous, hell," Roderick Kinnison's thought was still coldly level; only the
fact that he was beginning to use non-ballroom language revealed any sign of the strain
he was under. "Stop being so goddam heroic and start using your brain. You turned
down fifty billion credits. Why do you suppose they offered that much, when they can get
anybody killed for a hundred? And what would they do about it?"
     "But they couldn't get away with it, Rod, at an Ambassadors' Ball. They couldn't,
possibly."
     "Formerly, no. That was my first thought, too. But it was you who pointed out to
me, not so long ago, that the techniques of crime have changed of late. In the new light,
the swankier the brawl the greater the confusion and the better the chance of getting
away clean. Comb that out of your whiskers, you red-headed mule!"
     "Well . . . there might be something in it, after all . . :' Samms' thought showed
apprehension at last.
     "You know damn well there is. But you boys-Jack and Mase especially-loosen up.
You -can't do good shooting while you're strung up like a couple of cocoons. Do some.
     thing-talk to your partners or think at Jill . . ."
     "That won't be hard, sir." Mason Northrop grinned feebly. "And that reminds me of
something, Jill. Mentor certainly bracketed the target when he-or she, or it, maybe-said
that you would never need a Lens."
     "Huh?" Jill demanded, inelegantly. "I don't see the connection, if any."
     "No? Everybody else does, I'll bet. How about it?" The other Lensmen, even
Samms, agreed enthusiastically. "Well, do you think that any of those characters,
particularly Herkimer Herkimer Third, would let a harness bull in harness-even such a
beautiful one as you-get close enough to him to do such a Davey the Dip act on his
mind'?"
     "Oh . . . I never thought of that, but it's right, and I'm glad . . . but Pops, you said
something about 'support in force.' Have you any idea how long it will be? I hope I can
hold out, with you all supporting me, but. . "
     "You can, Jill. Two or three minutes more, at most."
     "Support? In force? What do you mean?" Samms snapped.
     "Just that. The whole damned army," Kinnison replied. "I sent Two-Star
Commodore Alexander Clayton a thought that lifted him right out of his chair. Everything
he's got, at full emergency blast. Armor û mark eighty fours û six by six extra heavies û a
ninety sixty for an ambulance û full escort, upstairs and down û way-friskers û 'copters û
cruisers and big stuff û in short, the works. I would have run with you before this, if I
dared; but the minute the relief party shows up, we do a flit."
     "If you dared?" Jill asked, shaken by the thought
     "Exactly, my dear. I don't dare. If they start anything we'll do our damndest, but
I'm praying they won't."
     But Kinnison's prayers-if he made any-were ignored Jill heard a sharp, but very
usual and insignificant sound; someone had dropped a pencil. She felt an inconspicuous
muscle twitch slightly. She saw the almost imperceptible tensing of a neck-muscle which
would have turned Herkimer's head in a certain direction if it had been allowed to act. Her
eyes flashed along that line, searched busily for milli-seconds. A man was reaching
unobtrusively, as though for a handkerchief. But men at Ambassadors' Balls do not carry
blue handkerchiefs; nor does any fabric, however dyed, resemble at all closely the blued
steel of an automatic pistol.
     Jill would have screamed, then, and pointed; but she bad time to do neither.
Through her rapport with her father the Lensmen saw everything that she saw, in the
instant of her seeing it. Hence five shots blasted out, practically as one, before the girl
could scream, or point, or even move. She did scream, then; but since dozens of other
women were screaming, too, it made no difference-then.
     Conway Costigan, trigger-nerved spacehound that he was and with years of gun-
fighting and of hand-to-hand brawling in his log, shot first; even before the gunman did. It
was Costigan's blinding speed that saved Virgil Samms' life that day; for the would-be
assassin was dying, with a heavy slug crashing through his brain, before he finished
pulling the trigger. The dying hand twitched upward. The bullet intended for Samms' heart
went high; through the fleshy part of the shoulder.
     Roderick Kinnison, because of his age, and his son and Northrop, because of their
inexperience, were a few milliseconds slow. They, however, were aiming for the body,
not for the head; and any of those three resulting wounds would have been satisfactorily
fatal. The man went down, and stayed down.
     Samms staggered, but did not go down until the elder Kinnison, as gently as was
consistent with the maximum of speed, threw him down.
     "Stand back! Get back! Give him air!" Men began to shout, the while pressing
closer themselves.
     "You men, stand back. Some of you go get a stretcher. You women, come here."
Kinnison's heavy, parade-ground voice smashed down all lesser noises. "Is there a
doctor here?"
     There was; and, after being "frisked" for weapons, he went busily to work.
     "Joy-Betty-Jill-Clio," Kinnison called his own wife and their daughter, Virgilia
Samms, and Mrs. Costigan. "You four first. Now you-and you-and you-and you . . ." he
went on, pointing out large, heavy women wearing extremely extreme gowns, "Stand
here, right over him. Cover him up,
     so that nobody else can get a shot at him. You other women, stand behind and
between these-closer yet-fill those spaces up solid-there! Jack, stand there. Mase,
there. Costigan, the other end; I'll take this one. Now, everybody, listen. I know damn
well that none of you women are wearing guns above the waist, and you've all got long
skirts-thank God for ballgowns! Now, fellows, if any one of these women makes a move
to lift her skirt, blow her brains out, right then, without waiting to ask questions."
     "Sir, I protest! This is outrageous!" one of the dowagers exclaimed.
     "Madam, I agree with you fully. It is." Kinnison smiled as genuinely as be could
under the circumstances. "It is, however, necessary. I will apologize to all you ladies, and
to you, doctor-in writing if you like-after we have Virgil Samms aboard the Chicago; but
until then I would not trust my own grandmother."
     The doctor looked up. "Me Chicago? This wound does not appear to be a very
serious one, but this man is going to a hospital at once. Ah, the stretcher. So . . . please
. . . easy . . . there, that is excellent. Call an, ambulance, please, immediately."
     "I did. Long ago. But no hospital, doctor. All those windows--open to the public-or
the whole place bombed û by no means. I'm taking no chances whatever.-"
     "Except with your own life!" Jill, put in sharply, looking up from her place at her
father's side. Assured that the First Lensman was in no danger of dying, she had begun
to take interest in other things. "You are important, too, you know, and you're standing
right out there in the open. Get another stretcher, lie down on it, and we'll guard you, too
. . . and don't be too stiff-necked to take your own advice!" she flared, as he hesitated.
     "I'm not, if it were necessary, but it isn't. If they had killed him, yes. I'd probably
be next in line. But since he got only a scratch, there'd be no point at all in killing even a
good Number Two."
     "A scratch!" Jill fairly seethed. "Do you call that horrible wound a scratch?"
     "Huh? Why, certainly-that's all it is-thanks to you," he returned, in honest and
complete surprise. "No bones shattered-no main arteries cut-missed the lung-he'll be as
good as new in a couple of weeks."
     "And now," he went on aloud, "if you ladies will please pick up this stretcher we
will move en masse, and slowly, toward the door."
     The women, no longer indignant but apparently enjoying the sensation of being the
center of interest, complied with the request.
     "Now, boys," Kinnison Lensed a thought. "Did any of you -Costigan?-see any
signs of a concerted rush, such as there would have been to get the killer away if we
hadn't interfered?"
     "No, sir," came Costigan's brisk reply. "None within sight of me."
     "Jack and Mase-I don't suppose you looked?"
     They hadn't-had not thought of it in time.
     "You'll learn. It takes a few things like this to make it automatic. But I couldn't see
any, either, so I'm fairly certain there wasn't any. Smart operators-quick on the uptake."
     "I'd better get at this, sir, don't you think, and let Operation Boskone go for a
while?" Costigan asked.
     "I don't think so." Kinnison frowned in thought. "This operation was planned, son,
by people with brains. Any clues you could find now would undoubtedly be plants. No,
we'll let the regulars look; we'll stick to our own . . ."
     Sirens wailed and screamed outside. Kinnison sent out an exploring thought.
     "Alex?"
     "Yes. Where do you want this ninety-sixty with the doctors and nurses? It's too
wide for the gates."
     "Go through the wall. Across the lawn. Right up to the door, and never mind the
frippery they've got all over the place--have your adjutant tell them to bill us for damage.
Samms is shot in the shoulder. Not too serious, but I'm taking him to the Hill, where I
know he'll be safe. What have you got, on top of the umbrella, the Boise or the Chicago?
I haven't had time to look up yet."
     "Both."
     "Good man.",
     Jack Kinnison started at the monstrous tank, which was smashing statues,
fountains, and ornamental trees flat into the earth as it moved ponderously across the
grounds, and licked his lips. He looked at the companies of soldiers "frisking" the route,
the grounds, and the crowd-higher up, at the hovering helicopters-still higher, at the eight
light cruisers so evidently and so viciously ready to blast higher still, at the long
streamers of fire which, he now knew, marked the locations of the two most powerful
engines of destruction ever built by man-and his face turned slowly white.
     "Good Lord, Dad!" he swallowed twice. "I had no idea . . . but they might, at that."
     "Not `might', son. They damn well would, if they could get here soon enough with
heavy enough stuff." The elder Kinnison's jaw-muscles did not loosen, his darting eyes
did not relax their vigilance for a fraction of a second as he Lensed the thought. "You
boys can't be expected to know it all, but right now you're learning fast. Get this-paste it
in your iron hats. Virgil Samms' life is the most important thing in this whole damned
universe! If they had got him then it would not, strictly speaking, have been my fault, but
if they get him now, it will be."
     The land cruiser crunched to a stop against the very entrance, and a white-clad
man leaped out.
     "Let me look at him, please . . ."
     "Not yet!" Kinnison denied, sharply. "Not until he's got four inches of solid steel
between him and -whoever wants to finish the job they started. Get your men around
him, and get him aboard-fast!"
     Samms, protected at every point at every instant, was lifted into the maw of the
ninety-sixty; and as the massive door clanged shut Kinnison heaved a tremendous sigh of
relief. The cavalcade moved away.
     "Coming with us, Rod?" Commodore Clayton shouted.
     "Yes, but got a couple minutes' work here yet. Have a staff car wait for me, and
I'll join you." He turned to the three young Lensmen and the girl. "'This fouls up our plans
a little, but not too much-I hope. No change in Mateese or Boskone; you and Costigan,
Jill, can go ahead as planned. Northrop, you'll have to brief Jill on Zwilnik and find out
what she knows. Virgil was going to do it tonight, after the brawl here, but you know as
much about it now as any of us. Check with Knobos, DalNalten, and Fletcher-while Virgil
is laid up you and Jack may have to work on both Zabriska and Zwilnik -he'll Lens you.
Get the dope, then do as you think best. Get going!" He strode away toward the waiting
staff-car.
     "Boskone? Zwilnik?" Jill demanded. "What gives? What are they, Jack?"
     "We don't know yet-maybe we're going to name a couple of planets . . ."
     "Piffle!" she scoffed. "Can you talk sense, Mase? What's Boskone?"
      "A simple, distinctive, pronounceable coined word; suggested, I believe, by Dr.
Bergenholm . . . " he began.
     "You know what I mean, you . . ." she broke in, but was silenced by a sharply
Lensed thought from Jack. His touch was very light, barely sufficient to make
conversation possible; but even so, she flinched.
     "Use your brain, Jill; you aren't thinking a lick-not that you can be blamed for it.
Stop talking; there may be lip-readers or high-powered listeners around. This feels funny,
doesn't it? He twitched mentally and went on: "You already know what Operation
Mateese is, since it's your own dish û politics. Operation Zwilnik is drugs, vice, and so
on. Operation Boskone is pirates; Spud is running that. Operation Zabriska is Mase and
me checking some peculiar disturbances in the sub-ether. Come in, Mase, and do your
stuff-I'll see you later, aboard. Clear ether, Jill!"
     Young Kinnison vanished from the fringes of her mind and Northrop appeared. And
what a difference! His mind touched hers as gingerly as Jack's had done; as skittishly, as
instantaneously ready to bolt away from anything in the least degree private. However,
Jack's mind had rubbed hers the wrong way, right from the start-and Mase's didn't!
     "Now, about this Operation Zwilnik," Jill began.
     "Something else first. I couldn't help noticing, back there, that you and Jack . . .
well, not out of phase, exactly, or really out of sync, but sort of . . . well, as though . . :'
     "'Hunting'?" she suggested.
     "Not exactly . . . `forcing' might be better-like holding a tight beam together when it
wants to fall apart. So you noticed it yourself?"
     "Of course, but I thought Jack and I were the only ones who did. Like scratching a
blackboard with your fingernailsyou can do it, but you're awfully glad to stop . . . and I
like Jack, too, darn it-at a distance."
     "And you and I fit like precisely tuned circuits. Jack really meant it, then, when he
said that you . . . that is, he . . . I didn't quite believe it until now, but if . . . you know, of
course, what you've already done to me"
     Jill's block went on, full strength. She arched her eyebrows and spoke aloud-"why,
I haven't the faintest ideal"
     "Of course not. That's why you're using voice. I've found out, too, that I can't lie
with my mind. I feel like a heel and a louse, with so much job ahead, but you've simply
got to tell me something. Then-whatever you say-I'll hit the job with everything I've got.
Do I get heaved out between planets without a space-suit, or not?"
     "I don't think so." Jill blushed vividly, but her voice was steady. "You would rate a
space-suit, and enough oxygen to reach another plan-another goal, And now we'd better
get to work, don't you think?"
     "Yes. Thanks, Jill, a million. I know as well as you do that I was talking out of turn,
and how much-but I had to know." He breathed deep. "And that's all I ask-for now. Cut
your screens."
     She lowered her mental barriers, finding it surprisingly easy to do so in this case;
let them down almost as far as she was in the habit of doing with her father. He
explained in flashing thoughts everything he knew of the four Operations, concluding:
     "I'm not assigned to Zabriska permanently; I'll probably work with you on Mateese
after your father gets back into circulation. I'm to act more as a liaison man-neither
Knobos nor DalNalten knows you well enough to Lens you. Right?"
     "Yes, I've met Mr. Knobos only once, and have never even seen Dr. DalNalten."
     "Ready to visit them, via Lens?"
     "Yes. Go ahead."
     The two Lensmen came in. They came into his mind, not hers. Nevertheless their
thoughts, superimposed upon Northrop's, came to the girl as clearly as though all four
were speaking to each other face to face.
     "What a weird sensation!" Jill exclaimed. "Why, I never imagined anything like it!"
     "We are sorry to trouble you, Miss Samms . . ." Jill was surprised anew. The
silent voice deep within her mind was of characteristically Martian timber, but instead of
the harshly guttural consonants and the hissing sibilants of any Martian's best efforts at
English, pronunciation and enunciation were flawless.
     "Oh, I didn't mean that. It's no trouble at all, really, I just haven't got used to this
telepathy yet."
     "None of us has, to any noticeable degree. But the reason for this call is to ask
you if you have anything new, however, slight, to add to our very small knowledge of
Zwilnik?"
     "Very little, I'm afraid; and that little is mostly guesses, deductions, and jumping at
conclusions. Father told you about the way I work, I suppose?"
      "Yes. Exact data is not to be expected. Hints, suggestions, possible leads, will be
of inestimable value."
     "Well, I met a very short, very fat Venerian, named Ossmen, at a party at the
European Embassy. Do either of you know him?"
     "I know of him," DalNalten replied. "A highly reputable merchant, with such large
interests on Tellus that he has to spend most of his time here. He is not in any one of our
books . . . although there is nothing at all surprising in that fact. Go on, please, Miss
Samms."
     "He didn't come to the party with Senator Morgan; but he came to some kind of
an agreement with him that night, and I am pretty sure that it was about thionite. That's
the only new item I have."
     "Thionite!" The three Lensmen were equally surprised.
     "Yes. Thionite. Definitely."
     "How sure are you of this, Miss Samms?" Knobos asked, in deadly earnest.
     "I am not sure that this particular agreement was about thionite, no; but the
probability is roughly nine-tenths. I am sure, however, that both Senator Morgan and
Ossmen know a lot about thionite that they want to hide. Both gave very high positive
reactions-well beyond the six-sigma point of virtual certainty."
     There was a pause, broken by the Martian, but not by a thought directed at any
one of the three.
     "Sid!" he called, and even Jill could feel the Lensed thought speed.
     "Yes, Knobos? Fletcher."
     "That haul-in you made, out in the asteroids. Heroin, hadive, and ladolian, wasn't
it? No thionite involved anywhere?"
     "No thionite. However, you must remember that part of the gang got away, so all I
can say positively is that we didn't see, or hear about, any thionite. There was some
gossip, of course: but you know there always, is."
     "Of course. Thanks, Sid." Jill could feel the brilliant Martian's mental gears whirl
and click. Then he went into such a flashing exchange of thought with the Venerian that
the girl lost track in seconds.
     "One more question, Miss Samms?" DalNalten asked. "Have you detected any
indications that there may be some connection between either Ossmen or Morgan and
any officer or executive of Interstellar Spaceways?"
     "Spaceways! Isaacson?" Jill caught her breath. "Why . . .nobody even thought of
such a thing-at least, nobody ever mentioned it to me--I never thought of making any
such tests."
     "The possibility occurred to me only a moment ago, at your mention of thionite.
The connection, if any exists, will be exceedingly difficult to trace. But since most, if not
all, of the parties involved will probably be included in your Operation Mateese, and since
a finding, either positive or negative, would be tremendously significant, we feel
emboldened to ask you to keep this point in mind."
     "Why, of course I will. I'll be very glad to."
     "We thank you for your courtesy and your help. One or both of us will get in touch
with you from time to time, now that we know the pattern of your personality. May
immortal Grolossen speed the healing of your father's wound."

     CHAPTER 7

Late that night -- or, rather, very early the following morning-senator Morgan and his
Number One secretary were closeted in the former's doubly spy-ray-proofed office.
Morgan's round, heavy, florid face had perhaps lost a little of its usual color; the fingers
of his left hand drummed soundlessly upon the glass top of his desk. His shrewd gray
eyes, however, were as keen and as calculating as ever.
     "This thing smells, Herkimer . . . it seeks . . . but I can't figure any of the angles.
That operation was planned. Sire fire, it couldn't miss. Right up to the last split second it
worked perfectly. Then-blooie! A flat bust. The Patrol landed and everything was under
control. There must have been a leak somewhere-but where in hell could it have been?"
     "There couldn't have been a leak, Chief; it doesn't make sense." The secretary
uncrossed his long legs, recrossed them is the other direction, threw away a half-
smoked cigarette, lit another. "If there'd been any kind of a leak they would have done a
lot more than just kill the low man on the ladder. You know as well as I do that Rocky
Kinnison is the hardest-boiled character this side of hell. If he had known anything, he
would have killed everybody in sight, including you and me. Besides, if there had been a
leak, he would not have let Samms get within ten thousand miles of the place-that's one
sure thing. Another is he wouldn't have waited until after it was all over to get his army
there. No Chief, there couldn't have been a leak. Whatever Samms or Kinnison found out-
probably Samms, he's a hell of a lot smarter than Kinnison is, you know-he learned right
there and then. He must have seen Brainerd start to pull his gun.
     "I thought of that. I'd buy it, except for one fact. Apparently you didn't time the
interval between the shots and the arrival of the tanks."
     "Sorry, Chief." Herkimer's face was a study in chagrin. "I made a bad slip there."
     "I'll say you did. One minute and fifty eight seconds."
     "What!"
     Morgan remained silent.
     "The patrol is fast, of course . . . and always ready . . . and they would yank the
stuff in on tractor beams, not under their own power . . . but even so . . . five minutes, is
my guess, Chief. Four and a half, absolute minimum."
     "Check. And where do you go from there?"
     "I see your point. I don't. That blows everything wide open. One set of facts says
there was a leak, which occurred between two and a half and three minutes before the
signal was given. I ask you, Chief, does that make sense?"
     "No. That's what is bothering me. As you say, the facts seem to be contradictory.
Somebody must have learned something before anything happened; but if they did, why
didn't they do more? And Murgatroyd. If they didn't know about him, why the ships-
especially the big battlewagons? If they did think he might be out there somewhere, why
didn't they go and find out?"
     "Now I'll ask one. Why didn't our Mr. Murgatroyd do something? Or wasn't the
pirate fleet supposed to be in on this? Probably not, though."
     "My guess would be the same as yours. Can't see any reason for having a fleet
cover a one-man operation, especially as well-planned a one as this was. But that's none
of our business. These Lensmen are. I was watching them every second. Neither Samms
nor Kinnison did anything whatever during that two minutes."
     "Young Kinnison and Northrop each left the hall about that time."
     "I know it. So they did. Either one of them could have called the Patrol-but what
has that to do with the price of beef C. I. F. Valeria?"
     Herkimer refrained tactfully from answering the savage question. Morgan
drummed and thought for minutes, then went on slowly:
     "There are two, and only two, possibilities; neither of which seem even remotely
possible. It was-must have been -either the Lens or the girl."
     "Me girl? Act your age, Senator. I knew where she was, and what she was doing,
every second."
     "Mat was evident." Morgan stopped drumming and smiled cynically. "I'm getting a
hell of a kick out of seeing you taking it, for a change, instead of dishing it out."
     "Yes?" Herkimer's handsome face hardened. "That game isn't over, my friend."
     "That's what you think," the Senator jibed. "Can't believe that any woman can be
Herkimer-proof, eh? You've been working on her for six weeks now, instead of the usual
six hours, and you haven't got anywhere yet."
     "I will, Senator." Herkimer's nostrils flared viciously. "I'll get her, one way or
another, if it's the last thing I ever do."
     "I'll give you eight to five you don't; and a six-month time limit."
     "I'll take five thousand of that. But what makes you think that she's anything to be
afraid of? She's a trained psychologist, yes; but so am I; and I'm older and more
experienced than she is. That leaves that yoga stuff-her learning how to sit cross-legged,
how to contemplate her navel, and how to try to get in tune with the infinite. How do you
figure that puts her in my class?"
     "I told you, I don't. Nothing makes sense. But she is Virgil Samms' daughter."
     "What of it? You didn't gag on George Olmstead-you picked him yourself for one
of the toughest jobs we've got. By blood he's just about as close to Virgil Samms as
Virgilia is. They might as well have been hatched out of the same egg."
     "Physically, yes. Mentally and psychologically, no. Olmstead is a realist, a
materialist. He wants his reward in this world, not the next, and is out to get it.
Furthermore, the job will probably kill him, and even if it doesn't, he will never be in a
position of trust or where he can learn much of anything. On the other band, Virgil
Samms is-but I don't need to tell you what he is like. But you don't seem to realize that
she's just like him-she isn't playing around with you because of your overpowering charm
. . ."
     "Listen, Chief. She didn't know anything and she didn't do anything. I was dancing
with her all the time, as close as that," he clasped his hands tightly together, "so I know
what I'm talking about. And if you think she could ever learn anything from me, skip it.
You know that nobody on Earth, or anywhere else, can read my face; and besides, she
was playing coy right then-wasn't even looking at me. So count her out."
     "We'll have to, I guess." Morgan resumed his quiet drumming. "If there were any
possibility that she pumped you I'd send you to the mines, but there's no sign . . . that
leaves the Lens. It has seemed, right along, more logical than the girl-but a lot more
fantastic. Been able to find out anything more about it?"
     "No. Just what they've been -advertising. Combination radio-phone, automatic
language-converter, telepath, and so on. Badge of the top skimmings of the top-bracket
cops. But I began to think, out there on the floor, that they aren't advertising everything
they know."
     "So did I. You tell me."
     "Take the time zero minus three minutes. Besides the five Lensmen-and Jill
Samms-the place was full of top brass; scrambled eggs all over the floor. Commodores
and lieutenant-Commodores from all continental governments of the Earth, the other
planets, and the colonies, all wearing full-dress side-arms. Nobody knew anything then;
we agree on that. But within the next few seconds, somebody found out something and
called for help. One of the Lensmen could possibly have done that without showing signs.
BUT-at zero time all four Lensmen had their guns out-and not Lewistons, please note-and
were shooting; whereas none of the other armed officers knew that anything was going
on until after it was all over. That puts the finger on the Lens."
     "That's the way I figured it. But the difficulties remain unchanged. How? Mind-
reading?"
     "Space-drift!" Herkimer snorted. "My mind can't be read."
     "Nor mine."
     "And besides, if they could read minds, they wouldn't have waited until the last
possible split second to do it, unless . . . say, wait a minute! . . . Did Brainerd act or look
nervous, toward the last? I wasn't to look at him, you know."
     "Not nervous, exactly; but he did get a little tense."
     "There you are, then. Hired murderers aren't smart. A Lensman saw him tighten
up and got suspicious. Turned in the alarm on general principles.. Warned the others to
keep on their toes. But even so, it doesn't look like mind-reading -they'd have killed him
sooner. They were watchful, and mighty quick on the draw."
     "That could be it. That's about as thin and as specious an explanation as I ever
saw cooked up, but it does cover the facts . . . and the two of us will be able to make it
stick . . . but take notice, pretty boy, that certain parties are not going to like this at all. In
fact, they are going to be very highly put out."
     "That's a nice hunk of understatement, boss. But notice one beautiful thing about
this story?" Herkimer grinned maliciously. "It lets us pass the buck to Big Jim Towne. We
can be-and will be-sore as hell because he picks such weak-sister characters to do his
killings!"

                         *     *     *

In the heavily armored improvised ambulance, Virgil Samms sat up and directed a
thought at his friend Kinnison, finding his mind a turmoil of confusion.
     "What's the matter, Rod?"
     "Plenty!" the big Lensman snapped back. "They were û maybe still are-too damn
far ahead of us. Something has been going on that we haven't even suspected. I stood
by, as innocent as a three-year-old girl baby, and let you walk right into that one-and I
emphatically do not enjoy getting caught with my pants down that way. It makes me
jumpy. This may be all, but it may not be-not by eleven thousand light-years -and I'm
trying to dope out what is going to happen next."
     "And what have you deduced?"
     "Nothing. I'm stuck. So I'm tossing it into your lap. Besides, that's what you are
getting paid for, thinking. So go ahead and think. What would you be doing, if you were
on the other side?"
     "I see. You think, then, that it might not be good technique to take the time to go
back to the spaceport?"
     "You get the idea. But-can you stand transfer?"
     "Certainly. They got my shoulder dressed and taped, and my arm in a sling. Shock
practically all gone. Some pain, but not much. I can walk without falling down."
     "Fair enough. Clayton!" He Lensed a vigorous thought. "Have any of the observers
spotted anything, high up or far off?"
     ..No, sir."
     "Good. Kinnison to Commodore Clayton, orders. Have a 'copter come down and
pick up Samms and myself on tractors. Instruct the Boise and the cruisers to maintain
utmost vigilance. Instruct the Chicago to pick us up. Detach the Chicago and the Boise
from your task force. Assign them to me. Off."
     "Clayton to Commissioner Kinnison. Orders received and are being carried out.
Off."
     The transfers were made without incident. The two superdreadnaughts leaped
into the high stratosphere and tore westward. Half-way to the Hill, Kinnison called Dr.
Frederick Rodebush.
     "Fred? Kinnison. Have Cleve and Bergenholm link up with us. Now-how are the
Geigers on the outside of the Hill behaving?"
     "Normal, all of them," the physicist-Lensman reported after a moment. "Why?"
     Kinnison detailed the happenings of the recent past. "So tell the boys to unlimber
all the stuff the Hill has got."
     "My God!" Cleveland exclaimed. "Why, that's putting us back to the days of the
Interplanetary Wars!"
     "With one notable exception," Kinnison pointed out. "Me attack, if any, will be
strictly modern. I hope we'll be able to handle it. One good thing, the old mountain's got a
lot of sheer mass. How much radioactivity will it stand?"
     "Allotropic iron, U-235, or plutonium?" Rodebush seized his slide-Tale.
     "What difference does it maker"
     "From a practical standpoint . . . perhaps none. But with a task force defending,
not many bombs could get through, so I'd say. . ."
     "I wasn't thinking so much of bombs."
     "What, then?"
     "Isotopes. A good, thick blanket of dust. Slow-speed, fine stuff that neither our
ships nor the Hill's screens could handle. We've got to decide, first, whether Virgil will be
safer there in the Hill or out in space in the Chicago; and second, for how long."
     "I see . . . I'd say here, under the Hill. Months, perhaps years, before anything
could work down this far. And we can always get out. No matter how hot the surface
gets, we've got enough screen, heavy water, cadmium, lead, mercury, and everything
else necessary to get him out through the locks."
     "That's what I was hoping you'd say. And now, about the defense . . . I wonder . .
. I don't want everybody to think I've gone completely hysterical, but I'll be damned if I
want to get caught again with . . ." His thought faded out.
     "May -I offer a suggestion, sir?" Bergenholm's thought broke the prolonged
silence.
     "I'd be very glad to have it-your suggestions so far haven't been idle vaporings.
Another hunch?"
     "No, sir, a logical procedure. It has been some months since the last emergency
call-out drill was held. If you issue such another call now, and nothing happens, it can be
simply another surprise drill; with credit, promotion, and monetary awards for the best
performances; further practice and instruction for the less proficient units."
     "Splendid, Dr. Bergenholm!" Samms' brilliant and agile mind snatched up the
thought and carried it along. "And what a chance, Rod, for something vastly larger and
more important than a Continental, or even a Tellurian, drill-make it the first maneuver of
the Galactic Patrol!"
     "I'd like to, Virge, but we can't. My boys are ready, but you aren't. No top
appointments and no authority."
     "That can be arranged in a very few minutes. We have been waiting for the
psychological moment. This, especially if trouble should develop, is the time. You
yourself expect an attack, do you not?"
     "Yes. I would not start anything unless and until I was ready to finish it, and I see
no reason for assuming that whoever it was that tried to kill you is not at least as good a
planner as I am."
     "And the rest of you . . ? Dr. Bergenholm?"
     "My reasoning, while it does not exactly parallel that of Commissioner Kinnison,
leads to the same conclusion; that an attack in great force is to be expected."
     "Not exactly parallel?" Kinnison demanded. "In what respects?"
     "You do not seem to have considered the possibility, Commissioner, that the
proposed assassination of First Lensman Samms could very well have been only the first
step' in a comprehensive operation."
     "I didn't . . . and it could have been. So go ahead, Virge, with . . ."
     The thought was never finished, for Samms had already gone ahead.
Simultaneously, it seemed, the minds of eight other Lensmen joined the group of
Tellurians. Samms, intensely serious, spoke aloud to his friend:
     "The Galactic Council is now assembled. Do you, Roderick K. Kinnison, promise
to uphold, in as much as you conscientiously can and with all that in you lies, the authority
of this Council throughout all space?'
     "I promise."
     "By virtue of the authority vested in me its president by the Galactic Council, I
appoint you Port Admiral of the Galactic Patrol. My fellow councillors are now inducting
the armed forces of their various solar - systems into the Galactic Patrol . . . It will not
take long . . . There, you may make your appointments and issue orders for the
mobilization."
     The two superdreadnaughts were now approaching the Hill. The Boise stayed "up
on top"; the Chicago went down. Kinnison, however, paid very little attention to the
landing or to Samms' disembarkation, and none whatever to the Chicago's reascent into
the high heavens. He knew that everything was under control; and, now alone in his
cabin, he was busy.
     "All personnel of all armed forces just inducted into the Galactic Patrol, attention!"
He spoke into an ultra-wave microphone, the familiar parade-ground rasp very evident in
his deep and resonant voice. "Kinnison of Tellus, Port Admiral, speaking. Each of you has
taken oath to the Galactic Patrol?"
     They had.
     "At ease. The organization chart already in your hands is made effective as of
now. Enter in your logs the date and time. Promotions: Commodore Clayton of North
America, Tellus . . ."
     In his office at New York Spaceport Clayton came to attention and saluted crisply;
his eyes shining, his deeply-scarred face alight.
     ". . . to be Admiral of the First Galactic Region. Commodore Schweikert of
Europe, Tellus. . ."
     In Berlin a narrow-waisted, almost foppish-seeming man, with roached blond hair
and blue eyes, bowed stiffly from the waist and saluted punctiliously.
     ". . . to be Lieutenant-Admiral of the First Galactic Region."
     And so on, down the list. A marshal and a lieutenant-marshal of the Solarian
System; a general and a lieutenant-general of the planet Sol Three. Promotions, agreed
upon long since, to fill the high offices thus vacated. Then the list of commodores upon
other planets-Guindlos of Redland, Mars; Sesseffsen of Talleron, Venus; Raymond of
the Jovian Sub-System; Newman of Alphacent; Walters of Sirius; VanMeeter of Valeria;
Adams of Procyon; Roberts of Altair; Barrtell of Fomalhout; Armand of Vega; and Coigne
of Aldebaran-each of whom was actually the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, of
a world. Each of these was made general of his planet.
     "Except for lieutenant-commodores and up, who will tune their minds to me--
dismissed!" Kinnison stopped talking and went onto his Lens.
     "That was for the record. I don't need to tell you, fellows, how glad I am to be
able to do this. You're tops, all of you -I don't know of anybody I'd rather have at my
back when the ether gets rough . . ."
     "Right back at you, chief!" "Same to you Rod!" "Rocky Rod, Port Admiral!" "Now
we're blasting!" came a melange of thoughts. Those splendid men, with whom he had
shared so much of danger and of stress, were all as jubilant as schoolboys.
     "But the thing that makes this possible may also make it necessary for us to go to
work; to earn your extra stars and my wheel." Kinnison smothered the welter of thoughts
and outlined the situation, concluding: "So you see it may turn out to be only a drill-but on
the other hand, since the outfit is big enough to have built a war-fleet alone, if it wanted
one, and since it may have had a lot of first-class help that none of us knows anything
about, we may be in for the damndest battle that any of us ever saw. So come prepared
for anything. I am now going back onto voice, for the record.
     "Kinnison to the commanding officers of all fleets, subfleets, and task-forces of the
Galactic Patrol. Information. Subject, tactical problem; defense of the Hill against a
postulated Black Fleet of unknown size, strength, and composition; of unknown
nationality or origin; coming from an unknown direction in space at an unknown time.
     "Kinnison to Admiral Clayton. Orders. Take over. I am relinquishing command of
the Boise and the Chicago."
     "Clayton to Port Admiral Kinnison. Orders received. Taking over. I am at the
Chicago's main starboard lock. I have instructed Ensign Masterson, the commanding
officer of this gig, to wait; that he is to take you down to the Hill."
      "WHAT? Of all the damned . . :' This was a thought, and unrecorded.
     "Sorry, Rod û I'm sorry as hell, and I'd like no end to have you along." This, too,
was a thought. "But that's the way it is. Ordinary Admirals ride the ether with their fleets.
Port Admirals stay aground. I report to you, and you run things-in broad-by remote
control."
     "I see." Kinnison then Lensed a fuming thought at Samms. "Alex couldn't do this to
me-and wouldn't-and knows damn well that I'd burn him to a crisp if he had the guts to
try it. So it's your doing-what in hell's the big idea?"
     "Who's being heroic now, Rod?" Samms asked, quietly. "Use your brain. And then
come down here, Where you belong."
     And Kinnison, after a long moment of rebellious thought and with as much grace
as he could muster, came down. Down not only to the Patrol's familiar offices, but down
into the deepest crypts beneath them. He was glum enough, and bitter, at first: but he
found much to do. Grand Fleet Headquarters-his headquarters-was being organized, and
the best efforts of the best minds and of the best technologists of three worlds were
being devoted to the task of strengthening the already extremely strong defenses of THE
HILL. And in a very short time the plates of GFHQ showed that Admiral Clayton and
Lieutenant-Admiral Schweikert were doing a very nice job.
     All of the really heavy stuff was of Earth, the Mother Planet, and was already in
place; as , were the less numerous and much lighter contingents of Mars, of Venus, and
of Jove. And the fleets of the outlying solar systems--;utters, scouts, and a few light
cruisers-were neither maintaining fleet formation nor laying course for Sol. Instead, each
individual vessel was blasting at maximum for the position in space in which it would form
one unit of a formation englobing at a distance of light-years the entire Solarian System,
and each of those hurtling hundreds of ships was literally combing all circumambient
space with its furiously-driven detector beams.
     "Nice." Kinnison turned to Samms, now beside him at the master plate. "Couldn't
have done any better myself."
     "After you get it made, what are you going to do with it in case nothing happens?"
Samms was still somewhat skeptical. "How long can you make a drill last?"
     "Until all the ensigns have long gray whiskers if I have to, but don't worry-if we
have time to get the preliminary globe made I'll be the surprisedest man in the system."
     And Kinnison was not-surprised; before full englobement was accomplished, a
loud-speaker gave tongue.
     "Flagship Chicago to Grand Fleet Headquarters!" it blatted, sharply. "The Black
Fleet has been detected. RA twelve hours, declination plus twenty degrees, distance
about thirty light-years . . ."
     Kinnison started to say something; then, by main force, shut himself up. He
wanted intensely to take over, to tell the boys out there exactly what to do, but he
couldn't. He was now a Big Shot-damn the luck! He could be and must be responsible for
broad policy and for general strategy, but, once those vitally important decisions had
been made, the actual work would have to be done by others. He didn't like it-but there it
was. Those flashing thoughts took only an instant of time.
     ". . . which is such extreme range that no estimate of strength or composition can
be made at present. We will keep you informed."
     "Acknowledge," be ordered Randolph; who, wearing now the five silver bars of
major, was his Chief Communications Officer. "No instructions."
     He turned to his plate. Clayton hadn't had to be told to pull in his light stuff; it was
all pelting hell-for-leather for Sol and Tellus. Three general plans of battle had been
mapped out by Staff. Each had its advantages-and its disadvantages. Operation Acorn-
long distances-would be fought at, say, twelve light-years. It would keep everything,
particularly the big stuff, away from the Hill, and would make automatics useless . . .
unless some got past, or unless the automatics were coming in on a sneak course, or
unless several other things-in any one of which cases what a Godawful shellacking the
Hill would take!
     He grinned wryly at Samms, who had been following his thought, and quoted: "A
vast hemisphere of lambent violet flame, through which neither material substance nor
destructive ray can pass."
     "Well, that dedicatory statement, while perhaps a bit florid, was strictly true at the
time-before the days of allotropic iron and of polycyclic drills. Now I'll quote one: `Nothing
is permanent except change'."
     "Uh-huh," and Kinnison returned to his thinking. Operation Adack. Middle distance.
Uh-uh. He didn't like it any better now than he had before, even though some of the Big
Brains of Staff thought it the ideal solution. A compromise. All of the disadvantages of
both of the others, and none of the advantages of either. It still stunk, and unless the
Black fleet had an utterly fantastic composition Operation Adack was out.
     And Virgil Samms, quietly smoking a cigarette, smiled inwardly. Rod the Rock
could scarcely be expected to be in favor of any sort of compromise.
     That left Operation Affick. Close up. It had three tremendous advantages. First,
the Hill's own offensive weapons -as long as they lasted. Second, the new Rodebush-
Bergenholm fields. Third, no sneak attack could be made without detection and
interception. It had one tremendous disadvantage; some stuff, and probably a lot of it,
would get through. Automatics, robots, guided missiles equipped with superspeed drives,
with polycyclic drills, and with atomic warheads strong enough to shake the whole world.
     But with those new fields, shaking the world wouldn't be enough; in order to get
deep enough to reach Virgil Samms they would damn near have to destroy the world.
Could anybody build a bomb that powerful? He didn't think so. Earth technology was
supreme throughout all known space; of Earth technologists the North Americans were,
and always had been, tops. Grant that the Black Fleet was, basically, North American.
Grant further that they had a man as good as Adlington-or that they could spy-ray
Adlington's brain and laboratories and shops-a tall order. Adlington himself was several
months away from a world-wrecker, unless he could put one a hundred miles down
before detonation, which simply was not feasible. He turned to Samms.
     "It'll be Affick, Virge, unless they've got a composition that is radically different
from anything I ever saw put into space."
     "So? I can't say that I am very much surprised."
     The calm statement and the equally calm reply were beautifully characteristic of
the two men. Kinnison had not asked, nor had Samms offered, advice. Kinnison, after
weighing -the facts, made his decision. Samms, calmly certain that the decision was the
best that could be made upon the data available, accepted it without question or
criticism.
     "We've still got a minute or two," Kinnison remarked. "Don't quite know what to
make of their line of approach. Coma Berenices: I don't know of anything at all out that
way, do you? They could have detoured, though."
     "No, I don't." Samms frowned in thought. "Probably a detour."
     "Check." Kinnison turned to Randolph. "Tell them 'to report whatever they know;
we can't wait any . . :'
     As he was speaking the report came in.
     The Black Fleet was of more or less normal make-up; considerably larger than the
North American contingent, but decidedly inferior to the Patrol's present Grand Fleet.
Either three or four capital ships . . .
     "And we've got six!" Kinnison said, exultantly. "Our own two, Asia's Himalaya,
Africa's Johannesburg, South America's Bolivar, and Europe's Europa."
     . . . Battle cruisers and heavy cruisers, about in the usual proportions; but an
unusually high ratio of scouts and -light cruisers. There were either two or three large
ships which could not be classified definitely at that distance; longrange observers were
going out to study them.
     "Tell Clayton," Kinnison instructed Randolph, "that it is to be Operation Affick, and
for him to fly at it."
     "Report continued," the speaker came to life again. "There are three capital ships,
apparently of approximately the Chicago class, but tear-drop-shaped instead of spherical
. . ."
     "Ouch!" Kinnison flashed a thought at Samms. "I don't like that. They can both
fight and run."
     ". . . The battle cruisers are also tear-drops. The small vessels are torpedo-
shaped. There are three of the large ships, which we are still not able to classify
definitely. They are spherical in shape, and very large, but do not seem to be either
armed or screened, and are apparently carrierspossibly of automatics. We are now
making contact-off!"
     Instead of looking at the plates before them, the two Lensmen went en rapport
with Clayton, so that they could see everything be saw. The stupendous Cone of Battle
had long since been formed; the word to fire was given in a measured two-second call.
Every firing officer in every Patrol ship touched his stud in the same split second. And
from the gargantuan mouth of the Cone there spewed a milesthick column of energy so
raw, so stark, so incomprehensibly violent that it must have been seen to be even dimly
appreciated. It simply cannot be described.
     Its prototype, Triplanetary's Cylinder of Annihilation, had been a highly effective
weapon indeed. The offensive beams of the fish-shaped Nevian cruisers of the void were
even more powerful. The Cleveland-Rodebush projectors, developed aboard the original
Boise on the long Nevian way, were stronger still. The composite beam projected by this
fleet of the Galactic Patrol, however, was the sublimation and quintessence of each of
these, redesigned and redesigned by scientists and engineers of ever-increasing
knowledge, rebuilt and rebuilt by technologists of ever-increasing skill.
     Capital ships and a few of the heaviest cruisers could mount screen generators
able to carry that frightful load; but every smaller ship caught in that semi-solid rod of
indescribably incandescent fury simply flared into nothingness.
     But in the instant before the firing order was given-as though precisely timed,
which in all probability was the case -the ever-watchful observers picked up two items of
fact which made the new Admiral of the First Galactic Region cut his almost irresistible
weapon and break up his Cone of Battle after only a few seconds of action: One: those
three enigmatic cargo scows bad fallen apart before the beam reached them, and
hundreds-yes, thousands-of small objects had hurtled radially outward, out well beyond
the field of action of the Patrol's beam, at a speed many times that of light. Two:
Kinnison's forebodings had been prophetic. A swarm of Blacks, all small-must have been
hidden right on Earth somewhere!-were already darting at the Hill from the south.
     "Cease firing!" Clayton rapped into his microphone. The dreadful beam expired.
"Break cone formation! Independent action-light cruisers and scouts, get those bombsl
Heavy cruisers and battle cruisers, engage similar units of the Blacks, two to one if
possible. Chicago and Boise, attack Black Number One. Bolivar and Himalaya, Number
Two. Europa and Johannesburg, Number Three!"
     Space was full of darting, flashing, madly warring ships. The three Black
superdreadnaughts leaped forward as one. Their massed batteries of beams, precisely
synchronized and aimed, lashed out as one at the nearest Patrol super heavy, the Boise.
Under the vicious power of that beautifully-timed thrust that warship's first, second, and
third screens, her very wall-shield, flared through the spectrum and into the black. Her
Chief Pilot, however, was fast-very fast-and he had a fraction of a second in which to
work. Thus, practically in the instant of her wall-shield's failure, she went free; and while
she was holed badly and_put out of action, she was not blown out of space. In fact, it
was learned later that she lost only forty men.
     The Blacks were not as fortunate. The Chicago, now without a partner, joined
beams with the Bolivar and the
     Himalaya against Number Two; then, a short half-second later, with her other two
sister-ships against Number Three. And in that very short space of time two Black super-
dreadnaughts ceased utterly to be.
     But also, in that scant second of time, Black Number One had all but disappeared!
Her canny commander, with no stomach at all for odds of five to one against, had
ordered flight at max; she was already one-sixtieth of a light-yearabout one hundred
thousand million miles-away from the Earth and was devoting her every energy to the
accumulation of still more distance.
     "Bolivar! Himalaya!" Clayton barked savagely. "Get him!" He wanted intensely to
join the chase, but he couldn't. He had to stay here. And he didn't have time even to
swear. Instead, without a break, the words tripping over each other against his teeth:
"Chicago! Johannesburg! Europa! Act at will against heaviest craft left. Blast 'em down!"
     He gritted his teeth. The scouts and light cruisers were doing their damndest, but
they were outnumbered three to one--Christ, what a lot of stuff was getting through! The
Blacks wouldn't last long, between the Hill and the heavies, but maybe long enough, at
that-the Patrol globe was leaking like a sieve! He voiced a couple of bursts of deepspace
profanity and, although he was almost afraid to look, sneaked a quick peek. to see bow
much was left of the Hill. He looked-and stopped swearing in the middle of a fourletter
Anglo-Saxon word.
     What he saw simply did not make sense. Those Black bombs should have peeled
the armor off of that mountain like the skin off of a nectarine and scattered it from the
Pacific to the Mississippi. By now there should be a hole a mile deep where the Hill had
been. But there wasn't. The Hill was still there! It might have shrunk a little--Clayton
couldn't see very well because of the worse-than-incandescent radiance of the practically
continuous, sense-battering, world-shaking atomic detonations-but the Hill was still there!
     And as he stared, chilled and shaken, at that indescribably terrific spectacle, a
Black cruiser, holed and helpless, fell toward that armored mountain with an acceleration
starkly impossible to credit. And when it struck it did not penetrate, and splash, and
crater, as it should have done. Instead, it simply spread out, in a thin layer, over an acre
or so of the fortress' steep and apparently still, armored surface!
      "You saw that, Alex? Good. Otherwise you could scarcely believe it," came
Kinnison's silent voice. "Tell all our ships to stay away. There's a force of over a hundred
thousand G's acting in a direction normal to every point of our surface. The boys are
giving it' all the decrement they cansomewhere between distance cube and fourth power-
but even so it's pretty fierce stuff. How about the Bolivar and .the Himalaya? Not having
much luck catching Mr. Black, are they?"
     "Why, I don't know. I'll check . . . No, sir, they aren't. They report that they are
losing ground and will soon lose trace."
     "I was afraid so, from that shape. Rodebush was about the only one who saw it
coming . . . well, we'll have to redesign and rebuild . . . "

                         *     *     *

Port Admiral Kinnison, shortly after directing the foregoing thought, leaned back in his
chair and smiled. The battle was practically over. The Hill had come through.
TheRodebush-Bergenholm fields had held her together through the most God-awful
session of saturation atomic bombing that any world had ever seen or that the mind of
man had ever conceived. And the counter-forces had kept the interior rock from flowing
like water. So far, so good.
     Her original armor was gone. Converted into . . .what? For hundreds of feet
inward from the surface she was hotter than the reacting slugs of the Hanfords.
Delousing her would be a project, not an operation; millions of cubic yards of material
would have to be hauled off into space with tractors and allowed to simmer for a few
hundred years; but what of that?
     Bergenholm had said that the fields would tend to prevent the radioactives from
spreading, as they otherwise would-and Virgil Samms was still safe!
     "Virge, my boy, come along." He took the First Lensman by his good arm and
lifted him out of his chair. "Old Doctor Kinnison's peerless prescription for you and me is
a big, thick, juicy, porterhouse steak."

      CHAPTER 8

That murderous attack upon Virgil Samms, and its countering by those new super-
lawmen, the Lensmen, and by an entire task force of the North American Armed Forces,
was news of Civilization-wide importance. As such, it filled every channel of Universal
Telenews for an hour. Then, in stunning and crescendo succession, came the staccato
reports of the creation of the Galactic Patrol, the mobilization - allegedly for maneuvers -
of Galactic Patrol's Grand Fleet, and the ultimately desperate and all-too-nearly
successful attack upon The Hill.
     "Just a second, folks; we'll have it very shortly. You'll see something that nobody
ever saw before and that nobody will ever see again. We're getting in as close as the
Law will let us." The eyes of Telenews' ace reporter and the telephoto lens of his
cameraman stared down from a scooter at the furiously smoking, sputteringly
incandescent surface of Triplanetary's ancient citadel; while upon dozens of worlds
thousands of millions of people packed themselves tighter and tighter around tens of
millions of visiplates and loudspeakers in order to see and to hear the tremendous news.
. .
     "There it is, folks, look at it-the only really impregnable fortress ever built by man!
A good many of our experts had it written off as obsolete, long ago, but it seems these
Lensmen had something up their sleeves besides their arms, heh-heh! And speaking of
Lensmen, they haven't been throwing their weight around, so most of us haven't noticed
them very much, but this reporter wants to go on record right now as saying there must
be a lot more to the Lens than any of us has thought, because otherwise nobody would
have gone to all that trouble and expense, to say nothing of the tremendous loss of life,
just to kill the Chief Lensman, which seems to have been what they were after.
     "We told you a few minutes ago, you know, that every Continent of Civilization
sent official messages denying most emphatically any connection with this outrage. It's
still a mystery, folks; in fact, it is getting more and more mysterious all the time. Not one
single man of the Black Fleet was taken alive! Not even in the ships that were only
holed-they blew themselves up! And there were no uniforms or books or anything of the
kind to be found in any of the wrecks-no identification whatever!
     "And now for the scoop of all time! Universal Telenews has obtained permission to
interview the two top -Lensmen, both of whom you all know-Virgil Samms and `Rod the
Rock' Kinnison-personally for this beam. We are now going down, by remote control, of
course, right into the Galactic patrol office, right in The Hill itself. Here we are. Now if you
will step just a little closer to the mike, please, Mr. Samms, or should I say . . .?"
     "You should say `First Lensman Samms'," Kinnison said bruskly.
     "Oh, yes, First Lensman Samms. Thank you, Mr. Kinnison. Now, First Lensman
Samms, our clients all want to know all about the Lens. We all know what it does, but
what, really, is it? Who invented it? How does it work?"
     Kinnison started to say something, but Samms silenced him with a thought.
     "I will answer those questions by asking you one." Samms smiled disarmingly. "Do
you remember what happened because the pirates learned to duplicate the golden
meteor of the Triplanetary Service?"
     "Oh, I see." The Telenews ace, although brash and not at all thin-skinned, was
quick on the uptake. "Hush-hush? T. S.?"
     "Top Secret: Very much so," Samms confirmed, "and we are going to keep some
things about the Lens secret as long as we possibly can."
     "Fair enough. Sorry folks, but you will agree that they're right on that. Well, then,
Mr. Samms, who do you think it was that tried to kill you, and where do you think the
Black Fleet came from?"
     "I have no idea," Samms said, slowly and thoughtfully. "No. No idea whatever."
     "What? Are you sure of that? Aren't you holding back maybe just a little bit of a
suspicion, for diplomatic reasons?"
     "I am holding nothing back; and through my Lens I can make you certain of the
fact. Lensed thoughts .come from the mind itself, direct, not through such voluntary
muscles as the tongue. The mind does not lie-even such lies as you call 'diplomacy."
     The Lensman demonstrated and the reporter went on: "He is sure, folks, which
fact knocked me speechless for a second or two-which is quite a feat in itself. Now, Mr.
Samms, one last question. What is all this Lens stuff really about? What are all you
Lensmen-the Galactic Council and so on-really up to? What do you expect to get out of
it? And why would anybody want to make such an allout effort to get rid of you? And give
it to me on the Lens, please, if you can do it and talk at the same time-that was a
wonderful sensation, folks, of getting the dope straight and knowing that it was straight."
     "I can and will answer both by voice and by Lens. Our basic purpose is . . ." and
he quoted verbatim the resounding sentences which Mentor had impressed so
ineradicably upon his mind. "You know how little happiness, how little real well-being,
there is upon any world today. We propose to increase both. What we expect to get out
of it is happiness and well-being for ourselves, the satisfaction felt by any good workman
doing the job for which he is best fitted and in which he takes pride. As to why anyone
should want to kill me, the logical explanation would seem to be that some group or
organization or race, opposed to that for which we Lensmen stand, decided to do away
with us and started with me."
     "Thank you, Mr. Samms. I am sure that we all enjoyed this interview very much.
Now, folks, you all know `Rocky Rod', `Rod the Rock', Kinnison . . . just a little closer,
please . . thank you. I don't suppose you have any suspicions, either, any more than. . ."
     "I certainly have!" Kinnison barked, so savagely that five hundred million people
jumped as one. "How do you want it; voice, or Lens, or both?" Then on the Lens: "Think it
over, son, because I suspect everybody!"
     "Bub-both, please, Mr. Kinnison." Even Universal's star reporter was shaken by
the quiet but deadly fury of the big Lensman's thought, but he rallied so quickly that his
hesitation was barely noticeable. "Your Lensed thought to me was that you suspect
everybody, Mr. Kinnison?"
     "Just that. Everybody. I suspect every continental government of every world we
know, including that of North America of Tellus. I suspect political parties and organized
minorities. I suspect pressure groups. I suspect capital and I suspect labor. I suspect an
organization of criminals. I suspect nations and races and worlds that no one of us has
as yet heard of-not even you, the top-drawer newshawk of the universe."
     "But you have nothing concrete to go on, I take it?"
     "If I did have, do you think I'd be standing here talking to you?"

                         *     *     *

First Lensman Samms sat in his private quarters and thought.
     Lensman Dronvire of Rigel Four stood behind him and helped him think.
     Port Admiral Kinnison, with all his force and drive, began a comprehensive
program of investigation, consolidation, expansion, redesigning, and rebuilding.
     Virgilia Samms went to a party practically every night. She danced, she flirted,
she talked. How she talked! Meaningless small talk for the most part--but interspersed
with artless questions and comments which, while they perhaps did not put her partner of
the moment completely at ease, nevertheless did not quite excite suspicion.
     Conway Costigan, Lens under sleeve, undisguised but inconspicuous, rode the
ether-lanes; observing minutely and reporting fully.
     Jack Kinnison piloted and navigated and computed for his friend and boatmate:
     Mason Northrop; who, completely surrounded by breadboard hookups of new and
ever-more-fantastic complexity, listened and looked; listened and tuned; listened and
rebuilt; listened and-finally-took bearings and bearings and bearings with his ultra-
sensitive loops.
     DalNalten and Knobos, with dozens of able helpers, combed the records of three
worlds in a search which produced as a by-product a monumental "who's who" of crime.
     Skilled technicians fed millions of cards, stack by stack, into the most versatile
and most accomplished machines known to the statisticians of the age.
     And Dr. Nels Bergenholm, abandoning temporarily his regular line of work,
devoted his peculiar talents to a highly abstruse research in the closely allied field of
organic chemistry.
     The walls of Virgil Samms' quarters became covered with charts, diagrams, and
figures. Tabulations and condensations piled up on his desk and overflowed into baskets
upon the floor. Until:
     "Lensman Olmstead, of Alphacent, sir," his secretary announced.
     "Good! Send him in, please."
     The stranger entered. The two men, after staring intently at each other for half a
minute, smiled and shook hands vigorously. Except for the fact that the newcomer's hair
was brown, they were practically identical!
     "I'm certainly glad to see you, George. Bergenholm passed you, of course?"
     "Yes. He says that he can match your hair to mine, even the individual white ones.
And be has made me a wigmaker's dream of a wig."
     "Married?" Samms' mind leaped ahead to possible complications.
     "Widower, same as you. And. . ."
     "Just a minute-going over this once will be enough." He Lensed call after call.
Lensmen in various parts of space became en rapport with him and thus with each other.
     "Lensmen-especially you, Rod-George Olmstead is here, and his brother Ray is
available. I am going to work."
     "I still don't like it!" Kinnison protested. "It's too dangerous. I told the Universe I
was going to keep you covered, and I meant it!"
     "That's what makes it perfectly safe. That is, if Bergenholm is sure that the
duplication is close enough . . ."
     "I am sure." Bergenholm's deeply resonant pseudo-voice left no doubt at all in any
one of the linked minds. "The substitution will not be detected.".
     ". . . and that nobody knows, George, or even suspects, that you got your Lens."
     "I am sure of that." Olmstead laughed quietly. "Also, nobody except us and your
secretary knows that I am here. For a good many years I have made a specialty of that
sort of thing. Photos, fingerprints, and so on have all been taken care of."
     "Good. I simply can not work efficiently here," Samms expressed what all knew to
be the simple truth. "Dronvire is a much better analyst-synthesist than I am; as soon as
any significant correlation. is possible he will know it. We have learned -that the Towne-
Morgan crowd, Mackenzie Power, Ossmen Industries, and Interstellar Spaceways are
all tied in together, and that thionite is involved, but we have not been able to get any
further. There is a slight correlation -barely significant-between deaths from thionite and
the arrival in the Solarian System of certain Spaceways liners.
      The fact that certain officials of the Earth-Screen Service have been and are
spending considerably more than they earn sets up a slight but definite probability that
they are allowing space-ships or boats from space-ships to land illegally. These
smugglers carry contraband, which may or may not be thionite. In short, we lack
fundamental data in eve ry department, and it is high time for me to begin doing my share
in getting it."
     "I don't check you, Virge." None of the Kinnisons ever did give up without a
struggle. "Olmstead is a mighty smooth worker, and you are our prime coordinator. Why
not let him keep up the counter-espionage---do the job you were figuring on doing
yourself-and you stay here and boss it?"
     "I have thought of that, a great deal, and have . . ."
     "Because Olmstead can not do it," a hitherto silent mind cut in, decisively. "I,
Rularion of North Polar Jupiter, say so. There are psychological factors involved. The
ability to separate and to evaluate the constituent elements of a complex situation; the
ability to make correct decisions without hesitation; as well as many others not as
susceptible to concise statement, but which collectively could be called power of mind.
How say you, Bergenholm of Tellus? For I have perceived in you a mind approximating in
some respects the philosophical and psychological depth of my own." This outrageously
egotistical declaration was, to the Jovian, a simple statement of an equally simple truth,
and Bergenholm accepted it as such.
     "I agree. Olmstead probably could not succeed."
     "Well, then, can Samms?" Kinnison demanded.
     "Who knows?" came Bergenholm's mental shrug, and simultaneously:
     "Nobody knows whether I can or not, but I am going to try," and Samms ended-
almost-the argument by asking Bergenholm and a couple of other Lensmen to come into
his office and by taking off his Lens.
     "And that's another thing I don't like." Kinnison offered one last objection. "Without
your Lens, anything can happen to you."
     "Oh, I won't have to be without it very long. And besides, Virgilia isn't the only one
in the Samms family who can work better-sometimes-without a Lens."
     The Lensmen came in and, in a surprisingly short time, went out. A few minutes
later, two Lensmen strolled out of Samms' inner office into the outer one.
     "Good-bye, George," the red-headed man said aloud, "and good luck."
     "Same to you, Chief," and the brown-haired one strode out.
     Norma the secretary was a smart girl, and observant. In her position, she had to
be. Her eyes followed the man out, then scanned the Lensman from toe to crown.
     "I've never seen anything like it, Mr. Samms," she remarked then. "Except for the
difference in coloring, and a sort of . . . well, stoopiness . . . he could be your identical
twin. You two must have had a common ancestor-or several-not too far back, didn't
you?"
     "We certainly did. Quadruple second cousins, you might call it. We have known of
each other for years, but this is the first time we have met."
     "Quadruple second cousins? What does that mean? How come?"
     "Well, say that once upon a time there were two men named Albert and Chester .
. ."
     "What? Not two Irishmen named Pat and Mike? You're slipping, boss." The girl
smiled roguishly. During rush hours she was always the fast, cool, efficient secretary, but
in moments of ease such persiflage as this was the usual thing in the First Lensman's
private office. "Not at all up to your usual form."
     "Merely because I am speaking now as a genealogist, not as a raconteur. But to
continue, we will say that Chester and Albert had four children apiece, two boys and two
girls, two pairs of identical twins, each. And when they grew up -half way up, that is . . . "
     "Don't fell me that we are going to suppose that all those identical twins married
each other?"
     "Exactly. Why not?"
     "Well, it would be stretching the laws of probability all out of shape. But go ahead-
I can see what's coming, I think."
     "Each of those couples had one, and only one, child. We will call those children
Jim Samms and Sally Olmstead; John Olmstead and Irene Samms."
     The girl's levity disappeared. "James Alexander Samms and Sarah Olmstead
Samms. Your parents. I didn't see what was coming, after all. This George Olmstead;
then, is your . ."
     "Whatever it is, yes. I can't name it, either-maybe you had better call Genealogy
some day and find out. But it's no wonder we look alike. And there are three of us, not
two--George has an identical twin brother."
     The red-haired Lensman stepped back into the inner office, shut the door, and
Lensed a thought at Virgil Samms.
     "It worked, Virgil! I talked to her for five solid minutes, practically leaning on her
desk, and she didn't tumblel And if this wig of Bergenholm's fooled her so completely, the
job he did on you would fool anybodyl"
     "Fine! I've done a little testing myself, on the keenest men I know, without a trace
of recognition so far."
     His last lingering doubt resolved, Samms boarded the ponderous, radiation-proof,
neutron-proof shuttle-scow which was the only possible means of entering or leaving the
Hill. A fast cruiser whisked him to Nampa, where Olmstead's "accidentally" damaged
transcontinental transport was being repaired, and from which city Olmstead had been
gone so briefly that no one had missed him. He occupied Olmstead's space; he
surrendered the remainder of Olmstead's ticket. He reached New York. He took a
'copter to Senator Morgan's office. He was escorted into the private office of Herkimer
Herkimer Third.
     "Olmstead. Of Alphacent."
     "Yes?" Herkimer's hand moved, ever so little, upon his desk's top.
     "Here." The Lensman dropped an envelope upon the desk in such fashion that it
came to rest within an inch of. the hand.
     "Prints. Here." Samms made prints. "Wash your hands, over there." Herkimer
pressed a button. "Check all these prints, against each other and the files. Check the two
halves of the torn sheet, fiber to fiber." He turned to the Lensless Lensman, now standing
quietly before his desk. "Routine; a formality, in your case, but necessary."
     "Of course."
     Then for long seconds the two hard men stared into the hard depths of each
other's eyes.
     "You may do, Olmstead. We have had very good reports of you. But you have
never been in thionite?"
     "No. I have never even seen any."
     "What do you want to get into it for?"
     "Your scouts sounded me out; what did they tell you? The usual thing-promotion
from the ranks into the brass-to get to where I can do myself and the organization some
good."
     "Yourself first, the organization second?"
     "What else? Why should I be different from the rest of you?"
     This time the locked eyes held longer; one pair smoldering, the other gold-flecked,
tawny ice.
     "Why, indeed?" Herkimer smiled thinly. "We do not advertise it, however."
     "Outside, I wouldn't, either; but here I'm laying my cards flat on the table."
     "I see. You will do, Olmstead, if you live. There's a test, you know."
     "They told me there would be."
     "Well, aren't you curious to know what it is?"
     "Not particularly. You passed it, didn't you?"
     "What do you mean by that crack?" Herkimer leaped to his feet; his eyes,
smoldering before, now ablaze.
     "Exactly what I said, no more and no less. You may read into it anything you
please." Samms' voice was as cold as were his eyes. "You picked me out because of
what I am. Did you think that moving upstairs would make a bootlicker out of me?"
     "Not at all." Herkimer sat down and took from a drawer two small, transparent,
vaguely capsule-like tubes, each containing a few particles of purple dust. "You know
what this is?"
     "I can guess."
     "Each of these is a good, heavy jolt; about all that a strong man with a strong
heart can stand. Sit down. Here is one dose. Pull the cover, stick the capsule up one
nostril, squeeze the ejector, and sniff. If you can leave this other dose sitting here on the
desk you will live, and thus pass the test. If you can't, you die."
     Samms sat, and pulled, and squeezed, and sniffed.
     His forearms hit the desk with a thud. His hands clenched themselves into fists,
the tight-stretched tendons standing boldly out. His face turned white. His eyes jammed
themselves shut; his jaw-muscles sprang into bands and lumps as they clamped his teeth
hard together. Every voluntary muscle in his body went into a rigor as extreme as that of
death itself. His heart pounded; his breathing became stertorous.
     This was the dreadful "muscle-lock" so uniquely characteristic of thionite; the
frenzied immobility of the ultimately passionate satisfaction of every desire.
     The Galactic Patrol became for him an actuality; a force for good pervading all the
worlds of all the galaxies of all the universes of all existing space-time continual. He knew
what the Lens was, and why. He understood time and space. He knew the absolute
beginning and the ultimate end.
      He also saw things and did things over which it is best to draw a kindly veil, for
every desire-mental or physical, open or sternly suppressed, noble or base-that Virgil
Samms had ever had was being completely satisfied. EVERY DESIRE.
     As Samms sat there, straining motionlessly upon the verge of death through sheer
ecstasy, a door opened and Senator Morgan entered the room. Herkimer started, almost
imperceptibly, as he turned-had there been, or not, an instantaneously-suppressed flash
of guilt in those now completely clear and frank brown eyes?
     "Hi, Chief; come in and sit down. Glad to see you-this is not exactly my idea of
fun."
     "No? When did you stop being a sadist?" The senator sat down beside his
minion's desk, the fingertips of his left hand began soundlessly to drum. "You wouldn't
have, by any chance, been considering the idea of . . . ?" He paused significantly.
     "What an idea." Herkimer's act-if it was an act-was flawless. "He's too good a
man to waste."
     "I know it, but you didn't act as though you did. I've never seen you come out such
a poor second in an interview . . and it wasn't because you didn't know to start with just
what kind of a tiger he was-tbat's why he was selected for this job. And it would have
been so easy to give him just a wee bit more."
     "That's preposterous, Chief, and you know it."
     "Do I? However, it couldn't have been jealousy, because he isn't being considered
for your job. He won't be over you, and there's plenty of room for everybody. What was
the matter? Your bloodthirstiness wouldn't have taken you that far, under these
circumstances. Come clean, Herkimer."
     "Okay-I hate the whole damned family!" Herkimer burst out, viciously.
     "I see. That adds up." Morgan's face cleared, his fingers became motionless.
"You can't make the Samms wench and aren't in position to skin her alive, so you get
allergic to all her relatives. That adds up, but let me tell you something." His quiet, level
voice carried more of menace than most men's loudest threats. "Keep your love life out
of business and keep that sadistic streak under control. Don't let anything like this
happen again."
     "I won't, Chief. I got off the beam-but he made me so damn mad!"
     "Certainly. That's exactly what he was trying to do. Elementary. If he could make
you look small it would make him look big, and he just about did. But watch now, he's
coming to."
     Samms' muscles relaxed. He opened his eyes groggily; then, as a wave of
humiliated realization swept over his consciousness, he closed them again and
shuddered. He had always thought himself pretty much of a man; how could he possibly
have descended to such nauseous depths of depravity, of turpitude, of sheer moral
degradation? And yet every cell of his being was shrieking its demand for more; his mind
and his substance alike were permeated by an overmastering craving to experience
again the ultimate thrills which they had so tremendously, so outrageously enjoyed.
     There was another good jolt lying right there on the desk in front of him, even
though thionite-sniffers always saw to it that no more of the drug could be obtained
without considerable physical exertion; which exertion would bring them to their senses. If
he took that jolt it would kill him. What of it? What was death? What good was life,
except to enjoy such thrills as he had just had and was about to have again? And
besides, thionite couldn't kill him. He was a super-man; he had just proved it!
     He straightened up and reached for the capsule; and that effort, small as it was,
was enough to bring First Lensman Virgil Samms back under control. The craving,
however, did not decrease. Rather, it increased.
     Months were to pass before he could think of thionite, or even of the color purple,
without a spasmodic catching of the breath and a tightening of every muscle. Years were
to pass before he could forget, even partially, the theretofore unsuspected dwellers in
the dark recesses of his own mind. Nevertheless, from the store of whatever it was that
made him what be was, Virgil Samms drew strength. Thumb and forefinger touched the
capsule, but instead of picking it up, he pushed it across the desk toward Herkimer.
     "Put it away, bub. One whiff of that stuff will last me for life." He stared
unfathomably at the secretary, then turned to Morgan and nodded. "After all, he did not
say that he ever passed this or any other test. He just didn't contradict me when I said
it."
     With a visible effort Herkimer remained silent, but Morgan did not.
     "You talk too much, Olmstead. Can you stand up yet?"
     Gripping the desk with both hands, Samms heaved himself to his feet. The room
was spinning and gyrating; every individual thing in it was moving in a different and
impossible orbit; his already splintered skull threatened more and more violently to
emulate a fragmentation bomb; black and white spots and vari-colored flashes filled his
cone of vision. He wrenched one hand free, then the other-and collapsed back into the
chair.
     "Not yet-quite," he admitted, through stiff lips.
     Although he was careful not to show it, Morgan was amazed-not that the man had
collapsed, but that he had been able so soon to lift himself even an inch. "Tiger" was not
the word; this Olmstead must be seven-eighths dinosaur.
     "It takes a few minutes; longer for some, not so long for others," Morgan said,
blandly. "But what makes you think Herkimer here never took one of the same?"
     "Huh?" Again two pairs of eyes locked and held; and this time the duel was longer
and more pregnant. "What do you think? How do you suppose I lived to get as old as I
am now? By being dumb?"
     Morgan unwrapped a Venerian cigar, settled it comfortably between his teeth, lit
it, and drew three slow puffs before replying.
     "Ali, a student. An analytical mind," he said, evenly, and-apparently-irrelevantly.
"Let's skip Herkimer for the moment. Try your hand on me."
     "Why not? From what we hear out in the field, you have always been in the upper
brackets, so you probably never had to prove that you could take it or let it alone. My
guess would be, though, that you could."
     "The good old oil, eh?" Morgan allowed his face and voice to register a modicum,
precisely metered, of contempt. "How to get along in the world; Lesson One: Butter up
the Boss."
     "Nice try, Senator, but I'll have to score you a clean miss" Samms, now back
almost to normal, grinned companionably. "We both know that if I were still in the
kindergarten I wouldn't be here now."
     "I'll let that one pass-this time." Under that look and tone Morgan's underlings
were wont to cringe, but this Olmstead was not the cringing type. "Don't do it again. It
might not be safe."
     "Oh, it would be safe enough-for today, at least. There are two factors which you
are very carefully ignoring. First, I haven't accepted the job yet."
     "Are you innocent enough to think you'll get out of this building alive if I don't
accept you?"
     "If you want to call it innocence, yes. Oh, I know you've got gunnies all over the
place, but they don't mean a thing."
     "No?" Morgan's voice was silkily venomous.
     "No." Olmstead was completely unimpressed. "Put yourself in my place. You
know I've been around a long time; and not just around my mother. I was weaned quite a
number of years ago."
     "I see. You don't scare worth a damn. A point. And you are testing me, just as I
am testing you. Another point. I'm beginning to like you, George. I think I know- what
your second point is, but let's have it, just for the record."
     "I'm sure you do. Any man, to be my boss, has got to be at least as good a man
as I am. Otherwise I take his job away from him."
     "Fair enough. By God, I do like you, Olmstead!" Morgan, his big face wreathed in
smiles, got up, strode over, and shook hands vigorously; and Samms, scan as he would,
could not even hazard a guess as to how much-if any-of this enthusiasm was real. "Do
you want the job? And when can you go to work?"
     "Yes, sir. Two hours ago, sir."
     "That's fine!" Morgan boomed. Although he did not comment upon it, he noticed
and understood the change in the form of address. "Without knowing what the job is or
how much it pays?"
     "Neither is important, sir, at the moment." Samms, who had got up easily enough
to shake hands, now shook his head experimentally. Nothing rattled. Good-he was in
pretty good shape already. "As to the job, I can either do it or find out why it can't be
done. As to pay, I've heard you called a lot of things, but `piker' was never one of them."
     "Very well. I predict that you will go far." Morgan again shook the Lensman's
hand; and again Samms could not evaluate the Senator's sincerity. "Tuesday afternoon.
New York Spaceport. Spaceship Virgin Queen. Report to Captain Willoughby in the dock
office at fourteen. hundred hours. Stop at the cashier's office on your way out. Good-
bye."

      CHAPTER 9

Piracy was rife. There was no suspicion, however, nor would there be for many years,
that there was anything of very large purpose about the business. Murgatroyd was
simply a Captain Kidd of space; and even if he were actually connected with Galactic
Spaceways, that fact would not be surprising. Such relationships had always existed; the
most ferocious and dreaded pirates of the ancient world worked in full partnership with
the First Families of that world.
     Virgil Samms was thinking of pirates and of piracy when he left Senator Morgan's
office. He was still thinking of them while he was reporting to Roderick Kinnison. Hence. .
.
     "But that's enough about this stuff and me, Rod. Bring me up to date on Operation
Boskone."
     "Branching out no end. Your guess was right that Spaceways' losses to pirates
are probably phony. But it wasn't the known attacks-that is, those cases in which the
ship was found, later, with some or most of the personnel alivethat gave us the real
information. They were all pretty much alike. But when we studied the total
disappearances we really hit the jack-pot."
     "That doesn't sound just right, but I'm listening."
     "You'd better, since it goes farther than even you suspected. It was no trouble at
all to get the passenger lists and the names of the crews of the independent ships that
were lost without a trace. Their relatives and friends-we concentrated mostly on wives-
could be located, except for the usual few who moved around so much that they got lost.
Spacemen average young, you know, and their wives are still younger. Well, these young
women got jobs, most of them remarried, and so on. In short, normal."
     "And in the case of Spaceways, not normal?"
     "Decidedly not. In the first place, you'd be amazed at how little publication was
ever done of passenger lists, and apparently crew lists were not published at all. No use
going into detail as to how we got the stuff, but we got it. However, nine tenths of the
wives had disappeared, and none had remarried. The only ones we could find were
those who did not care, even when their husbands were alive, whether they ever saw
them again or not. But the big break was-you remember the disappearance of that girls'-
school cruise ship?"
     "Of course. It made a lot of noise."
     "An interesting point in connection with that cruise is that two days before the ship
blasted off the school was robbed. The vault was opened with thermite and the whole
Administration Building burned to the ground. All the school's records were destroyed.
Thus, the list of missing had to be made up from statements made by friends, relatives, -
and what not."
     "I remember something of the kind. My impression was, though, that the space-
ship company furnished . . . Oh!" The tone of Samms' thought alerted sharply. "That was
Spaceways, under cover?"
     "Definitely. Our best guess is that there were quite a few shiploads of women
disappeared about that time, instead of one. Austine's College had more students that
year than ever before or since. It was the extras, not the regulars, who went on that
cruise; the ones who figured it would be more convenient to disappear in space than to
become ordinary missing persons."
     "But Rod! That would mean . . . but where?"
     "It means just that. And finding out 'where' will run into a project. There are over
two thousand million suns in this galaxy, and the best estimate is that there are more
than that many planets habitable by beings more or less human in type. You know how
much of the galaxy has been explored and how fast the work of exploring the rest of it is
going. Your guess is just as good as mine as to where those spacemen and engineers
and their wives and girl-friends are now. I am sure, though, of four things; none of which
we can ever begin to prove. One; they didn't die in space. Two; they landed on a
comfortable and very well equipped Tellurian planet. Three; they built a fleet there. Four;
that fleet attacked the Hill."
     "Murgatroyd, do you suppose?" Although surprised by Kinnison's tremendous
report, Samms was not dismayed.
     "No idea. No data-yet."
     "And they'll keep on building," Samms said. "They had a fleet much larger than the
one they expected to meet. Now they'll build one larger than all our combined forces. And
since the politicians will always know what we are doing . . or it might be . . . I wonder . .
.?"
     "You can stop wondering." Kinnison grinned savagely.
     "What do you mean?"
     "Just what you were going to think about. You know the edge of the galaxy
closest, to Tellus, where that big rift cuts in."
     "Yes."
     "Across that rift, where it won't be surveyed for a thousand years, there's a planet
that could be Earth's twin sister No atomic energy, no space-drive, but heavily
industrialized and anxious to welcome us. Project Bennett. Very, very hushhush. Nobody
except Lensmen know anything about it. Two friends of Dronvire's-smart, smooth
operators-are in charge. It's going to be the Navy Yard of the Galactic Patrol."
     "But Rod . . ." Samms began to protest, his mind leaping ahead to the numberless
problems, the tremendous difficulties, inherent in the program which his friend had
outlined so briefly.
     "Forget it, Virge!" Kinnison cut in. "It won't be easy, of course, but we can do
anything they can do, and do it better. You can go calmly ahead with your own chores,
knowing that when-and notice that I say `when', not 'if =we need it we'll have a fleet up
our sleeves that will make the official one look like a task force. But I see you're at the
rendezvous, and there's Jill. Tell her 'hi' for me. And as the Vegians say =Tail high,
brother!' "
     Samms was in the hotel's ornate lobby; a couple of uniformed "boys" and Jill
Samms were approaching. The girl reached him first.
     "You had no trouble in recognizing me, then, my dear?"
     "None at all, Uncle George." She kissed him perfunctorily, the bell hops faded
away. "So nice to see you-I've heard so much about you. The Marine Room, you said?"
     "Yes. I reserved a table."
     And in that famous restaurant, in the unequalled privacy of the city's noisiest and
most crowded night spot, they drank sparingly; ate not-so-sparingly; and talked not
sparingly at all.
     "It's perfectly safe here, you think?" Jill asked first.
     "Perfectly.. A super-sensitive microphone couldn't hear anything, and it's so dark
that a lip-reader, even if he could read us, would need a pair of twelve-inch night-
glasses."
     "Goody! They did a marvelous job, Dad. If it weren't for
     your . . . well, your personality, I wouldn't recognize you even now."
     "You think I'm safe, then?"
     "Absolutely."
     "Then we'll get down to business. You, Knobos, and DalNalten all have keen and
powerful minds. You can't all be wrong. Spaceways, then, is tied in with both the
TowneMorgan gang and with thionite. The logical extension of that-Dal certainly thought
of it, even though he didn't mention it-would be . . ." Samms paused.
     "Check. That the notorious Murgatroyd, instead of being just another pirate chief,
is really working for Spaceways and belongs to the Towne-Morgan-Isaacson gang. But
dad -what an idea! Can things be that rotten, really?"
     "They may be worse than that. Now the next thing. Who, in your opinion, is the
real boss?"
     "Well, it certainly is not Herkimer Herkimer Third." Jill ticked him off on a pink
forefinger. She had been asked for an opinion; she set out to give it without apology or
hesitation. "He could-just about-direct the affairs of a hot-dog stand. Nor is it Clander. He
isn't even a little fish; he's scarcely a minnow. Equally certainly it is neither the Venerian
nor the Martian. They may run planetary affairs, but nothing bigger. I haven't met
Murgatroyd, of course, but I have had several evaluations, and he does not rate up with
Towne. And Big Jim-and this surprised me as much as it will you-is almost certainly not
the prime mover." She looked at him questioningly.
     "That would have surprised me tremendously yesterday; but after today - I'll tell
you about that presently - it doesn't."
     "I'm glad of that. I expected an argument, and I have been inclined to question the
validity of my own results, since they do not agree with common knowledge-or, rather,
what is supposed to be knowledge. That leaves Isaacson and Senator Morgan." Jill
frowned in perplexity; seemed, for the first time, unsure. "Isaacson is of course a big
man. Able. Well-informed. Extremely capable. A top-notch executive. Not only is, would
have to be, to run Spaceways. On the other hand, I have always thought that Morgan
was nothing but a windbag . . :' Jill stopped talking; left the thought hanging in air.
     "So did I-until today," Samms agreed grimly. "I thought that he was simply an
unusually corrupt, greedy, rabble rousing politician. Our estimates of him may have to be
changed very radically."
     Samms' mind raced. From two entirely different angles of approach, Jill and he
had arrived at the same conclusion. But, if Morgan were really the Big Shot, would he
have deigned to interview personally such small fry as Olmstead? Or was Olmstead's job
of more importance than he, Samms, had supposed?
     "I've got a dozen more things to check with you," he went on, almost without a
pause, "but since this leadership matter is the only one in which my experience would
affect your judgment, I had better tell you about what happened today . . ."

                         *     *     *

Tuesday came, and hour fourteen hundred; and Samms strode into an office. There was
a big, clean desk; a wiry, intense, gray-haired man.
     "Captain Willoughby?"
     "Yes."
     "George Olmstead reporting."
     "Fourth Officer." The captain punched a button; the heavy, sound-proof door
closed itself and locked.
     "Fourth Officer? New-rank, eh, What does the ticket cover?"
     "New, and special. Here's the articles; read it and sign it." He did not add "or
else", it was not necessary. It was clearly evident that Captain Willoughby, never
garrulous, intended to be particularly reticent with his new subordinate.
     Samms read. ". . . Fourth Officer . . . shall . . . no duties or responsibilities in the
operation or maintenance of said spaceship . . . cargo . . ." Then came a clause which
fairly leaped from the paper and smote his eyes: "when in command of a detail outside
the hull of said space-ship he shall enforce, by the infliction of death or such other penalty
as he deems fit..."
     The Lensman was rocked to the heels, but did not show it. Instead, he took the
captain's pen-his own, as far as Willoughby was concerned, could have been filled with
vanishing ink-and wrote George Olmstead's name in George Olmstead's bold, flowing
script.
     Willoughby then took him aboard the good ship Virgin Queen and led him to his
cabin.
     "Here you are, Mr. Olmstead. Beyond getting acquainted with the supercargo and
the rest of your men, you will have no duties for a few days. You have full run of the ship,
with one exception. Stay out of the control room until I call you. Is that clear?"
     "Yes, sir." Willoughby turned away and Samms, after tossing his space-bag into
the rack, took inventory.
     The room was of course very small; but, considering the importance of mass, it
was almost extravagantly supplied. There were shelves, or rather, tight racks, of books;
there were sun-lamps and card-shelves and exercisers and games; there was a receiver
capable of bringing in programs from almost anywhere in space. The room had only one
lack; it did not have an ultra-wave visiplate. Nor was this lack surprising. "They" would
scarcely let George Olmstead know where "they" were taking him.
     Samms was surprised, however, when he met the men who were to be directly
under his command; for instead of one, or at most two, they numbered exactly forty. And
they were all, he thought at first glance, the dregs and sweepings of the lowest dives in
space. Before long, however, he learned that they were not all space-rats and denizens
of Skid Rows. Six of them-the strongest physically and the hardest mentally of the lot-
were fugitives from lethal chambers; murderers and worse. He looked at the biggest,
toughest one of the six -a rock-drill-eyed, red-haired giant-and asked;
     "What did they tell you, Tworn, that your job was going to be?"
     "They didn't say. Just that it was dangerous, but if I done exactly what my boss
would tell me to do, and nothing else, I might not even get hurt. An' I was due to take the
deep breath the next week, see? That's just how it was, boss."
     "I see," and one by one Virgil Samms, master psychologist, studied and analyzed
his motley crew until he was called into the control room.
     The navigating tank was covered; no charts were to be seen. The one "live"
visiplate showed a planet and a fiercely blue-white sun.
     "My orders are to tell you, at this point, all I know about what you've got to do and
about that planet down there. Trenco, they call it." To Virgil Samms, the first adherent of
Civilization ever to hear it, that name meant nothing whatever. "You are to take about five
of your men, go down there, and gather all the green leaves you can. Not green in color;
sort of purplish. What they call broadleaf is the best; leaves about two feet long and a
foot wide. But don't be too choosy. If there isn't any broadleaf handy, grab anything you
can get hold of."
     "What is the opposition?" Samms asked, quietly. "And what have they got that
makes them so tough?"
     "Nothing. No inhabitants, even Just.the planet itself. Next to Arisia, it's the God
damndest planet in space. I've never been any closer to it than this, and I never will, so I
don't know anything about it except what I hear; but there's something about it that kills
men or drives them crazy. We spend seven or eight boats every trip, and thirty-five or
forty men, and the biggest load that anybody ever took away from here was just under
two hundred pounds of leaf. A good many times we don't get any."
     "They go crazy, eh?" In spite of his control, Samms paled But it couldn't be like
Arisia. "What are the symptoms? What do they say?"
     "Various. Main thing seems to be that they lose their sight. Don't go blind, exactly,
but can't see where anything is; or, if they do see it, it isn't there. And it rains over forty
feet deep every night, and yet it all dries up by morning. The worst electrical storms in
the universe, and wind-velocitiesI can show you charts on that-of over eight hundred
miles; an hour."
     "Whew! How about time? With your permission, I would like to do some surveying
before I try to land."
     "A smart idea. A couple of the other boys had the same, but it didn't help-they
didn't come back. I'll give you two Tellurian days-no, three--before I give you up and start
sending out the other boats. Pick out your five men and see what you can do."
     As the boat dropped away, Willoughby's voice came briskly from a speaker. "I
know that you five men have got ideas. Forget 'em. Fourth Officer Olmstead has the
authority and the orders to put a half-ounce slug through the guts of any or all of you that
don't jump, and jump fast, to do what he tells you. And if that boat makes any funny
moves I blast it out of the ether. Good harvesting!"
     For forty-eight Tellurian hours, taking time out only to sleep, Samms scanned and
surveyed the planet Trenco; and the more he studied it, the more outrageously abnormal
it became.
     Trenco was, and is, a peculiar planet indeed. Its atmosphere is not air as we
know air; its hydrosphere does not resemble water. Half of that atmosphere and most of
that hydrosphere are one chemical, a substance of very low heat of vaporization and
having a boiling point of about seventy five degrees Fahrenheit. Trenco's days are
intensely hot; its nights are bitterly cold.
     At night, therefore, it rains; and by comparison a Tellurian downpour of one inch
per hour is scarcely a drizzle. Upon Trenco is really rains-forty seven feet and five inches
of precipitation, every night of every Trenconian year. And this tremendous condensation
of course causes wind. Willoughby's graphs were accurate. Except at Trenco's very
poles there is not a spot in which or a time at which an Earthly gale would not constitute
a dead calm; and along the equator, at every sunrise and every sunset, the wind blows
from the day side into the night side at a velocity which no Tellurian hurricane or cyclone,
however violent, has even distantly approached.
     Also, therefore, there is lightning. Not in the mild ; and occasional flashes which
we of gentle Terra know, but in a continuous, blinding glare which outshines a normal
sun; in battering, shattering, multi-billion-volt discharges which not only make darkness
unknown there, but also distort beyond recognition and beyond function the warp and the
woof of space itself. Sight is almost completely useless in that fantastically altered
medium. So is the ultra-beam.
     Landing on the daylight side, except possibly at exact noon, would be impossible
because of the wind, nor could the ship stay landed for more than a couple. of minutes.
Landing on the night side would be practically as bad, because of the terrific charge the
boat would pick up-unless the boat carried something that could be rebuilt into a leaker.
Did it? It did.
     Time after time, from pole to pole and from midnight around the clock, Samms
stabbed Visibeam and spy-ray down toward Trenco's falsely-visible surface, with
consistently and meaninglessly impossible results. The planet tipped, lurched, spun, and
danced. It broke up into chunks, each of which began insanely to follow mathematically
impossible paths.
     Finally, in desperation, he rammed a beam down and held it down. Again he saw
the planet break up before his eyes, but this time he held on. He knew that he was well
out of the stratosphere, a good two hundred miles up. Nevertheless, he saw a
tremendous mass of jagged rock falling straight down, with terrific velocity, upon his tiny
lifeboat! Unfortunately the crew, to whom he had not been paying overmuch attention of
late, saw it, too; and one of them, with a bestial yell, leaped toward Samms and the
controls.
      Samms, reaching for pistol and blackjack, whirled around just in time to see the
big red-head lay the would-be attacker out cold with a vicious hand's-edge chop at the
base of the skull.
     "Thanks, Tworn. Why?"
     "Because I want to get out of this alive, and he'd've had us all in hell in fifteen
minutes. You know a hell of a lot more than we do, so I'm playin' it your way. See?"
     "I see. Can you use a sap?"
     "An artist," the big man admitted, modestly. "Just tell me how long you want a guy
to be out and I won't miss it a minute, either way. But you'd better blow that crumb's
brains out, right now. He ain't no damn good."
     "Not until after I see whether he can work or not. You're a Procian, aren't you?"
     "Yeah. Midlands-North Central."
     "What did you do?"
     "Nothing much, at first. Just killed a guy that needed killing; but the goddam louse
had a lot of money, so they give me twenty five years. I didn't like it very well, and acted
rough, so they give me solitary-boot, bandage, and so on. So I tried a break-killed six or
eight,- maybe a dozen, guards-but didn't quite make it. So they slated me for the big
whiff. That's all, boss."
     "I'm promoting you, now, to squad leader. Here's the sap." He handed Tworn his
blackjack. "Watch 'em-I'll be too busy to. This landing is going to be tough."
     "Gotcha, boss." Tworn was calibrating his weapon by slugging himself
experimentally on the leg. "Go ahead. As far as these crumbs are concerned, you've got
this air-tank all to yourself."
     Samms had finally decided what he was going to do. He located the terminator on
the morning side, poised his little ship somewhat nearer to dawn than to midnight, and
"cut the rope". He took one quick reading on the sun, cut off his plates, and let her drop,
watching only his pressure gages and gyros.
     One hundred millimeters of mercury. Three hundred. Five hundred. He slowed her
down. He was going to hit a thin liquid, but if he hit it too hard he would smash the boat,
and he had no idea what the atmospheric pressure at Trenco's surface would be. Six
hundred. Even this late at night, it might be greater than Earth's . . . and it might be a lot
less. Seven hundred.
     Slower and slower he crept downward, his tension mount
     ing infinitely faster than did the needle of the gage. This was an instrument landing
with a vengeance! Eight hundred. How was the crew taking it? How many of them had
Tworn had to disable? He glanced quickly around. None! Now that they could not see the
hallucinatory images upon the plates, they were not suffering at all-he himself was the
only one aboard who was feeling the strain!
     Nine hundred . . . nine hundred forty. The boat "hit the drink" with a crashing,
splashing' impact. Its pace was slow enough, however, and the liquid was deep enough,
so that no damage was done. Samms applied a little driving power and swung his craft's
sharp nose into the line toward the sun. The little ship plowed slowly forward, as nearly
just awash as Samms could keep her; grounded as gently as a river steamboat upon a
mud-flat. The starkly incredible downpour slackened; the Lensman knew that the second
critical moment was at hand.
     "Strap down, men, until we see what this wind is going to do to us."
     The atmosphere, moving at a velocity well above that of sound, was in effect not a
gas, but a solid. Even a spaceboat's hard skin of alloy plate, with all its bracing, could not
take what was coming next. Inert, she would be split open, smashed, flattened out, and
twisted into pretzels. Samms' finger stabbed down; the Berg went into action; the
lifeboat went free just as that raging blast of quasi-solid vapor wrenched her into the air.
     The second descent was much faster and much easier than the first. Nor, this
time, did Samms remain surfaced or drive toward shore. Knowing now that this ocean
was not deep enough to harm his vessel, he let her sink to the bottom. More, he turned
her on her side and drove her at a flat angle into the bottom; so deep that the rim of her
starboard lock was flush with the ocean's floor. Again they waited; and this time the wind
did not blow the lifeboat away.
     Upon purely theoretical grounds Samms had reasoned that the weird distortion of
vision must be a function of distance, and his observations so far had been in accord with
that hypothesis. Now, slowly and cautiously, he sent out a visibeam. Ten feet . . . twenty
. . . forty . . . all clear. At fifty the seeing was definitely bad; at sixty it became
impossible. He shortened back to forty and began to study the vegetation, growing with
such fantastic speed that the leaves, pressed flat to the ground by the gale and anchored
there by heavy rootlets, were already inches long. There was also what seemed to be
animal life, of sorts, but Samms was not, at the moment, in. terested in Trenconian
zoology.
     "Are them the plants we're going to get, boss?" Tworn asked, staring into the
plate over Samms' shoulder. "Shall we go out now an' start pickin' 'em?'
     "Not yet. Even if we could open the port the blast would wreck us. Also, it would
shear your head off, flush with the coaming, as fast as you stuck it out. This wind should
ease off after while; we'll go out a little before noon. In the meantime we'll get ready.
Have the boys break out a couple of spare Number Twelve struts, some clamps and -
chain, four snatch blocks, and a hundred feet of heavy space-line . . .
     "Good," he went on, when the order had been obeyed. "Rig the line from the
winch through snatch blocks here, and here, and here, so I can haul you back against the
wind. While you are doing that I'll rig a remote control on the winch."
     Shortly before Trenco's fierce, blue-white sun reached meridian, the six men
donned space-suits and Samms cautiously opened the sir-lock ports. They worked. The
wind was now scarcely more than an Earthly hurricane; the wildly whipping broadleaf
plants, struggling upward, were almost half-way to the vertical. The leaves were
apparently almost fully grown.
     Four men clamped their suits to the line. The line was paid out. Each man
selected two leaves; the largest, fattest, purplest ones he could reach. Samms hauled
them back and received the loot; Tworn stowed the leaves away. Again-again-again.
     With noon there came a few minutes of "calm". A strong man could stand against
the now highly variable wind; could move around without being blown beyond the horizon;
and during those few minutes all six men gathered leaves. That time, however, was very
short. The wind steadied into the reverse direction with ever-increasing fury; winch and
space-line again came into play. And in a scant half hour, when the line began to hum an
almost musical note under its load, Samms decided to call it quits.
     "That'll be all for today, boys," he announced. "About twice more and this line will
part. You've done too good a job to lose you. Secure ship."
     "Shall I blow the air, sir?" Tworn asked.
     "I don't think so." Samms thought for a moment. "No. I'm afraid to take the
chance. This stuff; whatever it is, is probably as poisonous as cyanide. We'll keep our
suits on and exhaust into space."
     Time passed. "Night" came; the rain and the flood. The bottom softened. Samms
blasted the lifeboat out of the mud and away from the planet. He opened the bleeder
valves, then both airlock ports; the contaminated air was replaced by the ultra-hard
vacuum of the interplanetary void. He signaled the Virgin Queen; the lifeboat was taken
aboard.
     "Quick trip, Olmstead," Willoughby congratulated him. "I'm surprised that you got
back at all to say nothing of with so much stuff and not losing a man. Give me the weight,
mister, fast!"
     "Three hundred and forty eight pounds, sir," the supercargo reported.
     "My God! And all pure broadleaf! Nobody ever did that before! How did you do it,
Olmstead?"
     "I don't know whether that would be any of your business or not." Samms' mien
was not insulting; merely thoughtful "Not that I give a damn, but my way might not help
anybody else much, and I think I had better report to the main office first, and let them
do the telling. Fair enough?"
     "Fair enough," the skipper conceded, ungrudgingly. "What a load! And no losses!"
     "One boatload of air, is all; but air is expensive out here." Samms made a point,
deliberately.
     "Air!" Willoughby snorted. "I'll swap you a hundred flasks of air, any time, for any
one of those leaves!" Which was what Samms wanted to know.
     Captain Willoughby was smart. He knew that the way to succeed was to use and
then to trample upon his inferiors; to toady to such superiors as were too strong to be
pulled down and thus supplanted. He knew this Olmstead had what it took to be a big
shot. Therefore:
     "They told me to keep you in the dark until we got to Trenco," he more than half
apologized to his Fourth Officer shortly after the Virgin Queen blasted away from the
Trenconian system. "But they didn't say anything about afterwards-maybe they figured
you wouldn't be aboard any more, as usual-but anyway, you can stay right here in the
control room if you want to."
     "Thanks, Skipper, but mightn't it be just as well," he jerked his head
inconspicuously toward the other officers, "to play the string out, this trip? I don't care
where we're going, and we don't want anybody to get any funny ideas."
      "That'd be a lot better, of course-as long as you know that your cards are all
aces, as far as I'm concerned."
     "Thanks, Willoughby. I'll remember that."
     Samms had not been entirely frank with the private captain. From the time
required to make the trip, he knew to within a few parsecs Trenco's distance from Sol.
He did not know the direction, since the distance was so great that he had not been able
to recognize any star or constellation. He did know, however, the course upon which the
vessel then was, and he would know courses and distances from then on. He was well
content.
     A couple of uneventful days passed. Samms was again called into the control
room, to see that the ship was approaching a three-sun solar system.
     "This where we're going to land?" he asked, indifferently.
     "We ain't going to land," Willoughby told him. "You are going to take the broadleaf
down in your boat, close enough so that you can parachute it down to where it has to go.
Way 'nuff, pilot, go inert and match intrinsics. Now, Olmstead, watch. You've seen
systems like this before?"
     "No, but I know about them. Those two suns over there are a hell of a lot bigger
and further away than they look, and this one here, much smaller, is in the Trojan
position. Have those big suns got any planets?"
     "Five or six apiece, they say; all hotter and dryer than the brazen hinges of hell.
This sun here has seven, but Number Two-'Cavenda', they call it-is the only Tellurian
planet in the system. The first thing we look for is a big, diamondshaped continent . . .
there's only one of that shape . . . there it is, over there. Notice that one end is bigger
than the other-that end is north. Strike a line to split the continent in two and measure
from the north end one-third of the length of the line. That's the point we're diving at now
. . . see that crater?"
     "Yes." The Virgin Queen, although still hundreds of miles up, was slowing rapidly.
"It must be a big one."
     "It's a good fifty miles across. Go down until you're dead sure that the box will
land somewhere inside the rim of that crater. Then dump it. The parachute and the
sender are automatic. Understand?"
     "Yes, sir; I understand," and Samms took off.
     He was vastly more interested in the stars, however, than in delivering the
broadleaf. The constellation directly beyond Sol from wherever he was might be
recognizable. Its shape would be smaller and more or less distorted; its smaller
     stars, brilliant to Earthly eyes only because of their nearness would be dimmer,
perhaps invisible; the picture would be further confused by intervening, nearby, brilliant
strangers; but such giants as Canopus and Rigel and Betelgeuse and Deneb would
certainly be highly visible if he could only recognize them. From Trenco his search had
failed; but he was still trying.
     There was something vaguely familiar! Sweating with the mental effort, he
blocked out the too-near, too-bright stars and studied intensively those that were left. A
blue-white and a red were most prominent. Rigel and Betelgeuse? Could that
constellation be Orion? The Belt was very faint but it was there. Then Sirius ought to be
about there, and Pollux about there; and, at this distance, about equally bright. They
were. Aldebaran would be orange, and about one magnitude brighter than Pollux; and
Capella would be yellow, and half a magnitude brighter still. There they were! Not too
close to where they should be, but close enough -it was Orion! And this thionite way-
station, then, was somewhere near right ascension seventeen hours and declination plus
ten degrees!
     He returned to the Virgin Queen. She blasted off. Samms asked very few
questions and Willoughby volunteered very little information; nevertheless the First
Lensman learned more than anyone of his fellow pirates would have believed possible.
Aloof, taciturn, disinterested to a degree, he seemed to spend practically all of his time in
his cabin when he was not actually at work; but he kept his eyes and his ears wide open.
And Virgil Samms, as has been intimated, had a brain.
     The Virgin Queen made a quick flit from Cavenda to Vegia, arriving exactly on
time; a proud, clean space-ship as high above suspicion as Calpurnia herself. Samms
unloaded her cargo; replaced it with one for Earth. She was serviced. She made a fast,
eventless run to Tellus. She docked at New York Spaceport. Virgil Samms walked
unconcernedly into an ordinary-looking rest-room; George Olmstead, fully informed,
walked unconcernedly out.
     As soon as he could, Samms Lensed Northrop and Jack Kinnison.
     "We lined up a thousand and one signals, sir," Northrop reported for the pair, "but
only one of them carried a message, and it didn't make sense."
     "Why not?" Samms asked, sharply. "With a Lens, any kind of a message,
however garbled, coded, or interrupted, makes sense."
     "Oh, we understood what it said," Jack came in, "but it didn't say enough. Just
`READY-READY-READY'; over and over."
     "What!" Samms exclaimed, and the boys could feel his mind work. "Did that
signal, by any chance, originate anywhere near seventeen hours and plus ten degrees?"
     "Very near. Why? How did you know?"
     "Then it does make sense!" Samms exclaimed, and called a general conference of
Lensmen.
     "Keep working along these same lines," Samms directed, finally. "Keep Ray
Olmstead in the Hill in my place. I am going to Pluto, and-I hope-to Palain Seven."
     Roderick Kinnison of course protested; but, equally of course, his protests were
over-ruled.

     CHAPTER 10

PLUTO is, on the average, about forty times as far away from the sun as is Mother
Earth. Each square yard of Earth's surface receives about sixteen hundred times as
much beat as does each of Pluto's. The sun as seen from Pluto is a dim, wan speck.
Even at perihelion, an event which occurs only once in two hundred forty eight Tellurian
years, and at noon and on the equator, Pluto is so bitterly cold that climatic conditions
upon its surface simply cannot be described by or to warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing
man.
     As good an indication as any can be given, perhaps, by mentioning the fact that it
had taken the Patrol's best engineers over six months to perfect the armor which Virgil
Samms then wore. For no ordinary space-suit would do. Space itself is not cold; the only
loss of heat is by radiation into or through an almost perfect vacuum. In contact with
Pluto's rocky, metallic soil, however, there would be conduction; and the magnitude of
the inevitable heat-loss made the Tellurian scientists gasp.
     "Watch your feet, Virge!" had been Roderick Kinnison's
     insistent last thought. "Remember those psychologists-if they stayed in contact
with that ground for five minutes they froze their feet to the ankles. Not that the boys
aren't good, but slipsticks sometimes slip in more ways than one. If your feet ever start
to get cold, drop whatever you're doing and drive back here at max!"
     Virgil Samms landed. His feet stayed warm. Finally, assured that the heaters of
his suit could carry the load indefinitely, he made his way on foot into the settlement near
which he had come to ground. And there he saw his first Palainian.
     Or, strictly speaking, he saw part of his first Palainian; for no three-dimensional
creature has ever seen or ever will see in entirety any member of any of the frigid-
blooded, poison-breathing races. Since life as we know it-organic, three-dimensional life-
is based upon liquid water and gaseous oxygen, such life did not and could not develop
upon planets whose temperatures are only a few degrees above absolute zero. Many,
perhaps most, of these ultra-frigid planets have an atmosphere of sorts; some have no
atmosphere at all. Nevertheless, with or without atmosphere and completely without
oxygen and water; life-highly intelligent life--did develop upon millions and millions of such
worlds. That life is not, however, strictly three-dimensional. Of necessity, even in the
lowest forms, it possesses an extension into the hyper-dimension; and it is this metabolic
extension alone which makes it possible for life to exist under such extreme conditions.
     The extension makes it impossible for any human being to see anything of a
Palainian except the fluid, amorphous, ever-changing thing which is his three-dimensional
aspect of the moment; makes any attempt at description or portraiture completely futile.
Virgil Samms stared at the Palainian; tried to see what it looked like. He could not tell
whether it had eyes or antennae; legs, arms, or tentacles, teeth or beaks, talons or
claws or feet; skin, scales, or feathers. It did not even remotely resemble anything that
the Lensman had ever seen, sensed, or imagined. He gave up; sent out an exploring
thought.
     "I am Virgil Samms, a Tellurian," he sent out slowly, carefully, after he made
contact with the outer fringes of the creature's mind, "Is it possible for you, sir or madam,
to give me a moment of your time?"
     "Eminently possible, Lensman Samms, since my time is of completely negligible
value." The monster's mind flashed into accord with Samms' with a speed and precision
that m-i !e him gasp. That is, a part of it became en rapport with a part of his: years
were to pass before even the First Lensman would know much more about the Palainian
than he learned in that first contact; no human beings except the Children of the Lens
ever were to understand even dimly the labyrinthine intricacies, the paradoxical
complexities, of the Palainian mind.
     " æMadam' might be approximately correct," the native's thought went smoothly on.
"My name, in your symbology, is Twelfth Pilinipsi; by education, training, and occupation I
am a Chief Dexitroboper. I perceive that you are indeed a native of that hellish Planet
Three, upon which it was assumed for so long that no life could possibly exist. But
communication with your race has been almost impossible heretofore
     . . Ali, the Lens. A remarkable device, truly. I would slay you and take it, except
for the obvious fact that only you can possess it."
     "What!" Dismay and consternation flooded Samms' mind. "You already know the
Lens?"
     "No. Yours is the first that any of us has perceived. The mechanics, the
mathematics, and the basic philosophy of the thing, however, are quite clear."
     "What! Samms exclaimed again. "You can, then, produce Lenses yourselves?"
     "By no means, any more than you Tellurians can. There are magnitudes,
variables, determinants, and forces involved which no Palainian will ever be able to
develop, to generate, or to control."
     "I see." The Lensman pulled himself together. For a First Lensman he was making
a wretched showing indeed. . .
     "Far from it, sir," the monstrosity assured him. "Considering the strangeness of
the environment into which you have voluntarily flung yourself so senselessly, your mind is
well integrated and strong. Otherwise it would have shattered. If our positions were
reversed, the mere thought of the raging heat of your Earth would - come no closer,
please!" The thing vanished; reappeared many yards away. Her thoughts were a shudder
of loathing, of terror, of sheer detestation. "But to get on: I have been attempting to
analyze and to understand your purpose, without success. That failure is not too
surprising, of course, since my mind is weak and my total power is small. Explain your
mission, please, as simply as you can."
     Weak? Small? In view of the power the monstrosity had- just shown, Samms
probed for irony, for sarcasm or pretense. There was no trace of anything of the kind.
     He tried, then, for fifteen solid minutes, to explain the Galactic Patrol, but at the
end the Palainian's only reaction was one of blank non-comprehension.
     "I fail completely to perceive the use of, or the need for, such an organization,"
she stated flatly. "This altruismwhat good is it? It is unthinkable that any other race would
take any risks or exert any effort for us, any more than we would for them. Ignore and
be ignored, as you must already know, is the Prime Tenet."
     "But there is a little commerce between our worlds; your people did not ignore our
psychologists;, and you are not ignoring me," Samms pointed out.
     "Oh, none of us is perfect," Pilinipsi replied, with a mental shrug and what seemed
to be an airy wave of a multi-tentacled member. "That ideal, like any other, can only be
approached asymptotically, never reached; and I, being somewhat foolish and silly, as
well as weak and vacillant, am much less perfect than most."
     Flabbergasted, Samms tried a new tack. "I might be able to make my position
clearer if I knew you better. I know your name, and that you are a woman of Palain
Seven"-it is a measure of Virgil Samms' real size that he actually thought "woman", and
not merely "female' ="but all I can understand of your occupation is the name you have
given it. What does a Chief Dexitroboper do?"
     "She-or he--or, perhaps, it . . . is a supervisor of the work of dexitroboping." The
thought, while perfectly clear, was completely meaningless to Samms, and the Palainian
knew it. She tried again. "Dexitroboping has to do with . . . nourishment? No-with
nutrients."
     "Ah. Farming-agriculture," Samms thought; but this time it was the Palainian who
could not grasp the concept. "Hunting? Fishing?" No better. "Show me, then, please."
     She tried; but demonstration, too, was useless; for to Samms the Palainian's
movements were pointless indeed. The peculiarly flowing subtly changing thing darted
back and forth, rose and fell, appeared and disappeared; undergoing the while-cyclic
changes in shape and form and size, in aspect and texture. It was now spiny, now
tentacular, now scaly, now covered with peculiarly repellent feather-like fronds, each
oozing a crimson slime. But it apparently did not do
 anything whatever. The net result of all its activity was, apparently, zero.
     "There, it is done." Pilinipsi's thought again came clear. "You observed and
understood? You did not. That is strange -baffling. Since the Lens did improve
communication and understanding tremendously, I hoped that it might extend to the
physical as well. But there must be some basic, fundamental difference, the nature of
which is at present obscure. I wonder . . . if I had a Lens, too-but no . . ."
     "But yes!" Samms broke in, eagerly. "Why don't you go to Arisia and be tested for
one? You have a magnificent, a really tremendous mind. It is of Lensman grade in every
respect except one-you simply don't want to use it!"
     "Me? Go to Arisia?" The thought would have been, in a Tellurian, a laugh of scorn,
"How utterly silly-how abysmally stupid! There would be personal discomfort, quite
possibly personal danger, and two Lenses would be little or no better than one in
resolving differences between our two continua, which are probably in fact
incommensurable."
     "Well, then," Samms thought, almost viciously, "can you introduce me to someone
who is stupider, sillier, and more foolish than you are?"
     "Not here on Pluto, no." The Palainian took no offense. "That was why it was I
who interviewed the earlier Tellurian visitors and why I am now conversing with you. The
others avoided you."
     "I see." Samms' thought was grim. "How about the home planet, then?"
     "Ah. Undoubtedly. In fact, there is a group, a club, of such persons. None of them
is, of course, as insane-as aberrant -as you are, but they are all much more so than I
am."
     "Who of this club would be most interested in becoming a Lensman?"
     "Tallick was the least stable member of the New-Thought Club when I left .Seven;
Kragzex a close second. There may of course have been changes since then. But I
cannot believe that even Tallick-even Tallick at his outrageous worstwould be crazy
enough to join your Patrol."
     "Nevertheless, I must see him myself. Can you and will you give me a chart of a
routing from here to Palain Seven?"
     "I can and I will. Nothing you have thought will be of any use to me; that will be the
easiest and quickest way of getting rid of you." The Palainian spread a completely
detailed chart in Samms mind, snapped the telepathic line, and went unconcernedly
about her incomprehensible business.
     Samms, mind reeling, made his way back to his boat and took off. And as the
light-years and the parsecs screamed past, he sank deeper and deeper into a welter of
unproductive speculation. What were-really-those Palainians? How could they-really-exist
as they seemed to exist? And why had some of that dexitroboper's-whatever that
meant!thoughts come in so beautifully sharp and clear and plain while others . . .?
     He knew that his Lens would receive and would convert into his own symbology
any thought or message, however coded or garbled or however sent or transmitted. The
Lens was not at fault; his symbology was There were conceptsthings-actualities-
occurrences-so foreign to- Tellurian experience that no referents existed. Hence the
human mind lacked the channels, the mechanisms; to grasp them.
     He and Roderick Kinnison had glibly discussed the possibility of encountering
forms of intelligent life so alien that humanity would have no point whatever of contact
with them. After what Samms had just gone through, that was more of a possibility than
either he or his friend had believed; and he hoped grimly, as be considered how seriously
this partial contact with the Palainian had upset him, that the possibility would never
become a fact.
     He found the Palainian system easily enough, and Palain Seven. That planet, of
course, was almost as dark upon its sunward side as upon the other, and its inhabitants
had no use for light. Pilinipsi's instructions, however, had been minute and exact; hence
Samms had very little trouble in locating the principal city-or, rather, the principal village,
since there were no real cities. He found the planet's one spaceport. What a thing to call
a port! He checked back; recalled exactly this part of his interview with Pluto's Chief
Dexitroboper.
     "The place upon which space-ships land," had been her thought, when she
showed him exactly where it was in relationship to the town. Just that, and nothing else.
It had been his mind, not hers, that had supplied the docks and cradles, the service cars,
the officers, and all the other things taken for granted in space-fields everywhere as
Samms knew them. Either the Palainian had not perceived the trappings with which
Samms had invested her visualization, or she had not cared enough about his
misapprehension to go to the trouble of correcting it; he did not know which.
     The whole area was as bare as his hand. Except for the pitted, scarred, slagged-
down spots which showed so clearly what driving blasts would do to such inconceivably
cold rock and metal, Palainport was in no way distinguishable from any other unimproved
portion of the planet's utterly bleak surface.
     There were no signals; he had been told of no landing conventions. Apparently it
was everyone for himself. Wherefore Samms' tremendous landing lights blazed out, and
with their aid he came safely to ground. He put on his armor and strode to the airlock;
then changed his mind and went to the cargo-port instead. He had intended to walk, but
in view of the rugged and deserted field and the completely unknown terrain between the
field and the town, he decided to ride the "creep" instead.
     This vehicle, while slow, could go-literally-anywhere. It had a cigar-shaped body of
magnalloy; it had big, soft, tough tires; it had cleated tracks; it had air- and water-
propellers; it had folding wings; it had driving, braking, and steering jets. It could traverse
the deserts of Mars, the oceans and swamps of Venus, the crevassed glaciers of Earth,
the jagged, frigid surface of an iron asteroid, and the cratered, fluffy topography of the
moon; if not with equal speed, at least with equal safety.
     Samms released the thing and drove it into the cargo lock, noting mentally that he
would have to exhaust the air of that lock into space before he again broke the inner
seal. The ramp slid back into the ship; the cargo port closed. Here he was!
     Should he use his headlights, or not? He did not know the Palainians' reaction to
or attitude toward light. It had not occurred to him while at Pluto to ask, and it might be
important. The landing lights of his vessel might already have done his cause irreparable
harm. He could drive by starlight if he had to . . . but he needed light and he had not seen
a single living or moving thing. There was no evidence that there was a Palainian within
miles. While he had known, with his brain, that Palain would be dark, he had expected to
find buildings and traffic-ground-cars, planes, and at least a few space-ships -- and not
this vast nothingness.
     If nothing else, there must be a road from Palain's principal city to its only
spaceport; but Samms had not seen it from his vessel and he could not see it now. At
least, he could not recognize it. Wherefore he clutched in the tractor drive and took off in
a straight line toward town. The going was more than rough -- it was really rugged -- but
the creep was built to stand up under punishment and its pilot's chair was sprung and
cushioned to exactly the same degree. Hence, while the course itself was infinitely worse
than the smoothly paved approaches to Rigelston, Samms found this trip much less
bruising than the other had been.
     Approaching the village, he dimmed his roadlights and slowed down. At its edge
he cut them entirely and inched his way forward by starlight alone.
     What a town! Virgil Samms had seen the inhabited places of almost every planet
of Civilization. He had seen cities laid out in circles, sectors, ellipses, triangles, squares,
parallelopipeds û practically every plan known to geometry. He had seen structures of all
shapes and sizes -- narrow skyscrapers, vast-spreading one-stories, polyhedra, domes,
spheres, semicylinders, and erect and inverted full and truncated cones and pyramids.
Whatever the plan or the shapes of the component units, however, those inhabited
places had, without exception, been understandable. But this!
     Samms, his eyes now completely dark-accustomed, could see fairly well, but the
more he saw the less he grasped. There was no plan, no coherence or unity whatever. It
was as though a cosmic hand had flung a few hundreds of buildings, of incredibly and
senselessly varied shapes and sites and architectures, upon an otherwise empty plain,
and as though each structure had been allowed ever since to remain in whatever location
and attitude it had chanced to fall. Here and there were jumbled piles of three or more
utterly incongruous structures. There were a few whose arrangement was almost
orderly. Here and there were large, irregularly-shaped areas of bare, untouched ground.
There were no streets -- at least, nothing that the man could recognize as such.
     Samms headed the creep for one of those open areas, then stopped --
declutched the tracks, set the brakes, and killed the engines.
     "Go slow, fellow," he advised himself then. "Until you find out what a dexitroboper
actually does while working at his trade, don't take chances of interfering or of doing
damage!"
     No Lensman knew -- then -- that frigid-blooded poison-breathers were not strictly
three-dimensional; but Samms did know that he had actually seen things which he could
not understand. He and Kinnison had discussed such occurrences calmly enough; but the
actuality was enough to shake even the mind of Civilization's First Lensman.
     He did not need to be any closer, anyway. He had learned the Palainians' patterns
well enough to Lens them from a vastly greater distance than his present one; this
personal visit to Palainopolis had been a gesture of friendliness, not a necessity.
     "Tallick? Kragzex?" He sent out the questing, querying thought. "Lensman Virgil
Samms of Sol Three calling Tallick and Kragzex of Palain Seven."
     "Kragzex acknowledging, Virgil Samms," a thought snapped back, as diamond-
clear, as precise, as Pilinipsi's had been.
     "Is Tallick here, or anywhere on the planet?"
     "He is here, but he is emmfozing at the moment. He will join us presently."
     Damnation! There it was again! First "dexitroboping", and now this!
     "One moment, please," Samms requested. "I fail to grasp the meaning of your
thought."
     "So I perceive. The fault is of course mine, in not being able to attune my mind
fully to yours. Do not take this, please, as any aspersion upon the character or strength
of your own mind."
     "Of course not. I am the first Tellurian you have met?"
     "Yes."
     "I have exchanged thoughts with one other Palainian, and the same difficulty
existed. I can neither understand nor explain it; but it is as though there are differences
between us so fundamental that in some matters mutual comprehension is in fact
impossible."
     "A masterly summation and undoubtedly a true one. This emmfozing, then -- if I
read correctly, your race has only two sexes?"
     "You read correctly."
     "I cannot understand. There is no close analogy. However, emmfozing has to do
with reproduction."
     "I see," and Samms saw, not only a frankness brand-new to his experience, but
also a new view of both the powers and the limitations of his Lens.
     It was, by its very nature, of precisionist grade. It received thoughts and
translated them precisely into English. There was some leeway, but not' much. If any
thought was such that there was no extremely close counterpart or referent in English,
the Lens would not translate it at all, but would simply give it a hitherto meaningless
symbol -- a symbol which would from that time on be associated, by all Lenses
everywhere, with that one concept and no other. Samms realized then that he might,
some day, learn what a dexitroboper actually did and what the act of emmfozing actually
was; but that he very probably would not.
     Tallick joined them then, and Samms again described glowingly, as he had done
so many times before, the Galactic Patrol of his imaginings and plannings. Kragzex
refused to have anything to do with such a thing, almost as abruptly as Pilinipsi had done,
but Tallick lingered -- and wavered.
     "It is widely known that I am not entirely sane," he admitted, "which may explain
the fact that I would very much like to have a Lens. But I gather, from what you have
said, that I would probably not be given a Lens to use purely for my own selfish
purposes?"
     "That is my understanding,". Samms agreed.
     "I was afraid so." Tallick's mien was . . "woebegone" is the only word for it. "I
have work to do. Projects, you know, of difficulty, of extreme complexity and scope,
sometimes even approaching danger. A Lens would be of tremendous use."
     "How?" Samms asked. "If your work is of enough importance to enough people,
Mentor would certainly give you a Lens."
     "Ms would benefit me; only me. We of Palain, as you probably already know, are
selfish, mean-spirited, small-souled, cowardly, furtive, and sly. Of what you call `bravery'
we have no trace. We attain our ends by stealth, by indirection, by trickery and deceit."
Ruthlessly the Lens was giving Virgil Samms the uncompromisingly exact English
equivalent of the Palainian's every thought. "We operate, when we must operate at all
openly, with the absolutely irreducible minimum of personal risk. These attitudes and at=
tributes will, I have no doubt, preclude all possibility of Lensmanship for me and for every
member of my race."
     "Not necessarily."
     Not necessarily! Although Virgil Samms did not know it, this was one of the really
critical moments in the coming into being of the Galactic Patrol. By a conscious, a
tremendous effort, the First Lensman was lifting himself above the narrow, intolerant
prejudices of human experience and was consciously attempting to see the whole
through Mentor's Arisian mind instead of through his Tellurian own. That Virgil Samms
was the first human being to be born with the ability to accomplish that feat even partially
was one of the reasons why he was the first wearer of the Lens.
     "Not necessarily," First Lensman Virgil Samms said and meant. He was
inexpressibly shocked -- revolted in every human fiber -- by what this unhuman monster
bad so frankly and callously thought. There were, however, many things which no human
being ever could understand, and there was not the shadow of a doubt that this Tallick
had a really tremendous mind. "You have said that your mind is feeble. If so, there is no
simple expression of the weakness of mine. I can perceive only one, the strictly human,
facet of the truth. In a broader view it is distinctly possible that your motivation is at least
as `noble' as mine. And to complete my argument, you work with other Palainians, do
you not, to reach a common goal?"
     "At times, yes."
     "Then you can conceive of the desirability of working with non-Palainian entities
toward an end which would benefit both races?"
     "Postulating such an end, yes; but I am unable to visualize any such. Have you any
specific project in mind?"
     "Not at the moment." Samms ducked. He had already fired every shot in his
locker. "I am quite certain, however, that if you go to Arisia you will be informed of
several such projects."
     There was a period of silence. Then:
     "I believe that I will go to Arisia, at that!"; Tallick exclaimed, brightly. "I will make a
deal with your friend Mentor. I will give him a share -- say fifty percent, or forty of the
time and effort I save on my own projects!"
     "Just so you go, Tallick." Samms concealed right manfully his real opinion of the
Palainian's scheme. "When can you go? Right now?"
     "By no means. I must first finish this project. A year, perhaps -- or more; or
possibly less. Who knows?"
     Tallick cut communications and Samms frowned. He did not know the exact length
of Seven's year, but he knew that it was long -- very long.

CHAPTER 11

A small, black scout-ship, commanded jointly by Master Pilot John K. Kinnison and
Master Electronicist Mason M. Northrop, was blasting along a course very close indeed
to RA17: D+10. In equipment and personnel, however, she was not an ordinary scout.
Her control room was so full of electronics racks and computing machines that there was
scarcely footway in any direction; her graduated circles and vernier scales were of a size
and a fineness usually seen only in the great vessels of the Galactic Survey. And her
crew, instead of the usual twenty-odd men, numbered only seven û one cook, three
engineers, and three watch officers. For some time the young Third Officer, then at the
board, had been studying something on his plate; comparing it minutely with the chart
clipped into the rack in front of him. Now he turned, with a highly exaggerated deference,
to the two Lensmen.
     "Sirs, which of your Magnificences is officially the commander of this here bucket
of odds and ends at the present instant?"
     "Him." Jack used his cigarette as a pointer. "The guy with the misplaced plucked
eyebrow on his upper lip. I don't come on duty until sixteen hundred hours -- one precious
Tellurian minute yet in which to dream of the beauties of Earth so distant in space and in
both past and future time."
     "Huh? Beauties? Plural? Next time I see a party whose pictures are cluttering up
this whole ship I'll tell her about your polygamous ideas. I'll ignore that crack about my
mustache, though, since you can't raise one of your own. I'm ignoring you, too -- like this,
see?" Ostentatiously turning his back upon the lounging Kinnison, Northrop stepped
carefully over three or four breadboard hookups and stared into the plate over the watch
officer's shoulder. He then studied the chart. "Was ist los, Stu? I don't see a thing."
     "More Jack's line than yours, Mase. This system we're headed for is a triple, and
the chart says it's a double. Natural enough, of course. This whole region is unexplored,
so the charts are astronomicals, not surveys. But that makes us Prime Discoverers, and
our Commanding Officer -- and the book says `Officer', not 'Officers' -- has got to . . ."
     "That's me, now," Jack announced, striding grandly toward the plate. "Amscray,
oobsbay. I will name the baby. I will report. I will go down in history . . ."
     "Bounce back, small fry. You weren't at the. time of discovery." Northrop placed a
huge hand flat against Jack's face and pushed gently. "You'll go down, sure enough --
not in history, but from a knock on the knob -- if you try to steal any thunder away from
me. And besides, you'd name it 'Dimples' -- what a revolting thought!"
     "And what would you name it? 'Virgilia', I suppose?"
     "Far from it, my boy." He had intended doing just that, but now he did not quite
dare. "After our project, of course. The planet we're heading for will be Zabriska; the
suns will be A-, B-, and C-Zabriskae, in order of size; and the watch officer then on duty,
Lieutenant L. Stuart Rawlings, will engross these and all other pertinent data in the log.
Can you classify 'em from here, Jack?'
     "I can make some guesses -- close enough, probably, for Discovery work." Then,
after a few minutes: "Two giants, a blue-white and a bluish yellow; and a yellow dwarf."
     "Dwarf in the Trojan?"
     "That would be my guess, since that is the only place it could stay very long, but
you can't tell much from one look. I can tell you one thing, though -- unless your Zabriska
is in a system straight beyond this one, it's got to be a planet of the big fellow himself;
and brother, that sun is hot!"
     "It's got to be here, lack. I haven't made that big an error in reading a beam since
I was a sophomore."
     "I'll buy that . . . well, we're close enough, I guess." Jack killed the driving blasts,
but not the Bergenholm; the inertialess vessel stopped instantaneously in open space.
"Now we've got to find out which one of those twelve or fifteen planets was on our line
when that last message was sent . . . There, we're stable enough, I hope. Open your
cameras, Mase. Pull the first plate in fifteen minutes. That ought to give me enough track
so I can start the job, since we're at a wide angle to their ecliptic."
     The work went on for an hour or so. Then:
     "Something coming from the direction of Tellus," the watch officer reported. "Big
and fast. Shall I hail her?" ,
     "Might as well," but the stranger hailed first.
     "Space-ship Chicago, NA2AA, calling. Are you in trouble? Identify yourself,
please."
     "Space-ship NA774J acknowledging. No trouble . . ."
     "Northrop! Jack!" came Virgil Samms' highly concerned thought. The
superdreadnaught flashed alongside, a bare few hundred miles away, and stopped.
"Why did you stop here?"
     "This is where our signal came from, sir."
     "Oh." A hundred thoughts raced through Samms' mind, too fast and too
fragmentary to be intelligible. I see you're computing. Would it throw you off too much to
go inert and match intrinsics, so that I can join you?"
     "No sir; I've got everything I need for a while."
     Samms came aboard; three Lensmen studied the chart.
     "Cavenda is there," Samms pointed out. "Trenco is there, off to one side. I felt
sure that your signal originated on Cavenda; but Zabriska, here, while on almost the
same line, is less than half as far from Tellus." He did not ask whether the two young
Lensmen were sure of their findings. He knew. "This arouses my curiosity no end -- does
it merely complicate the thionite problem, or does it set up an entirely new problem? Go
ahead, boys, with whatever you were going to do next."
     Jack had already determined that the planet they wanted was the second out; A-
Zabriskae Two. He drove the scout as close to the planet as he could without losing
complete coverage; stationed it on the line toward Sol.
     "Now we wait a bit," he answered. "According to recent periodicity, not less than
fowl' hours and not more than ten. With the next signal we'll nail that transmitter down to
within a few feet. Got your spotting screens full out, Maser"
     "Recent periodicity?" Samms snapped. "It has improved, then, lately?"
     "Very much, sir."
     "That helps immensely. With George Olmstead harvesting broadleaf, it would. It is
still one problem. While we wait, shall we study the planet a little?"
     They explored; finding that A-Zabriskae Two was a disappointing planet indeed. It
was small, waterless, airless, utterly featureless, utterly barren. There were no
elevations, no depressions, no visible markings whatever -- not even a meteor crater.
Every square yard of its surface was apparently exactly like every other.
     "No rotation," Jack reported, looking, up from the barometer. "That sand-pile is
not inhabited and never will be. I'm beginning to wonder."
     "So am I, now," Northrop admitted. "I still say that those signals came from this
line and distance, but it looks as though they must have been sent from a ship. If so, now
that we're here -- particularly the Chicago -- there will be no more signals."
     "Not necessarily." Again Samms' mind transcended his Tellurian experience and
knowledge. He did not suspect the truth, but he was not jumping at conclusions. "There
may be highly intelligent life, even upon such a planet as this."
     They waited, and in a few hours a communications beam snapped into life.
"READY -- READY -- READY it said briskly, for not quite one minute, but that was time
enough.
     Northrop yelped a string of numbers; Jack blasted the little vessel forward and
downward; the three watch officers, keen-eyed at their plates, stabbed their visibeams,
ultra-beams, and spy-rays along the indicated line.
     "And bore straight through the planet if you have to -- they may be on the other
side!" Jack cautioned, sharply.
     "They aren't -- it's here, on this side!" Rawlings saw it first. "Nothing much to it,
though . . . it looks like a relay station."
     "A relay! I'll be a . . ." Jack started to express an unexpurgated opinion, but shut
himself up. Young cubs did not swear in front of the First Lensman. "Let's land, sir, and
look the place over, anyway."
     "By all means."
     They landed, and cautiously disembarked. The horizon, while actually quite a little
closer than that of Earth, seemed much more distant because there was nothing
whatever -- no tree, no shrub, no rock or pebble, not even the slightest ripple -- to break
the geometrical perfection of that surface of smooth, hard, blindingly reflective, fiendishly
hot white sand. Samms was highly dubious at first -- a ground-temperature of four
hundred seventy-five degrees was not to be taken lightly; he did not at all like the looks
of that ultra-fervent blue-white sun; and in his wildest imaginings he had never pictured
such a desert. Their space-suits, however, were very well insulated, particularly as to the
feet, and highly polished; and in lieu of atmosphere there was an almost perfect vacuum.
They could stand it for a while.
     The box which housed the relay station was made of nonferrous metal and was
roughly cubical in shape, perhaps five feet on a side. It was so buried that its upper edge
was flush with the surface; its top, which was practically indistinguishable from the
surrounding sand, was not bolted or welded, but was simply laid on, loose.
     Previous spy-ray inspection having proved that the thing was not booby-trapped,
Jack lifted the cover by one edge and all three Lensmen studied the mechanisms at
close range; learning nothing new. There was an extremely sensitive non-directional
receiver, a highly directional sender, a beautifully precise uranium-clock director, and an
"eternal" powerpack. There was nothing else.
     "What next, sir?" Northrop asked. "There'll be an incoming signal, probably, in a
couple of days. Shall we stick around and see whether it comes in from Cavenda or
not?"
     "You and Jack had better wait, yes." Samms thought for minutes. "I do not
believe, now, that the signal will come from Cavenda, or that it will ever come twice from
the same direction, but we will have to make sure. But I can't see any reason for it!"
     "I think I can, sir." This was Northrop's specialty. "No space-ship could possibly hit
Tellus from here except by accident with a single-ended beam, and they can't use a
double-ender because it would have to be on all the time and would be as easy to trace
as the Mississippi River. But this planet did all its settling ages ago -- which is
undoubtedly why they picked it out -- and that director in there is a Marchanti û the
second Marchanti I have ever seen."
     "Whatever that is," Jack put in, and even Samms thought a question.
     "The most precise thing ever built," the specialist explained. "Accuracy limited only
by that of determination of relative motions. Give me an accurate enough equation to
feed into it, like that tape is doing, and two sighting shots, and I'll guarantee to pour an
eighteen-inch beam into any two foot cup on Earth. My guess is that it's aimed at some
particular bucket-antenna on one of the Solar planets. I could spoil its aim easily enough,
but I don't suppose that is what you're after."
     "Decidedly not. We want to trace them, without. exciting any more suspicion than
is absolutely necessary. How often, would you say, do they have to come here to service
this station -- change tapes, and whatever else might be necessary?"
     "Change tapes, is all. Not very often, by the size of those reels. If they know the
relative motions exactly enough, they could compute as far ahead as they care to. I've
been timing that reel -- it's got pretty close to three months left on it."
     "And more than that much has been used. It's no wonder we didn't see anything."
Samms straightened up and stared out across the frightful waste. "Look there -- I
thought I saw something move -- it is moving!"
     "There's something moving closer than that, and it's really funny." Jack laughed
deeply. "Its like the paddle-wheels, shaft and all, of an old-fashioned river steamboat,
rolling along as unconcernedly as you please. He won't miss me by over four feet, but he
isn't swerving a hair. I think I'll block him off, just to see what he does."
     "Be careful, Jack!" Samms cautioned, sharply. "Don't touch it -- it may be
charged, or worse."

Jack took the metal cover, which he was still holding, and by working it back and forth
edgewise in the sand, made of it a vertical barrier squarely across the thing's path. The
traveler paid no attention, did not alter its steady pace of a couple of miles per hour. It
measured about twelve inches long over all; its paddle-wheel-like extremities were
perhaps two inches wide and three inches in diameter.
     "Do you think it's actually alive, sir? In a place like this?"
     "I'm sure of it. Watch carefully."
     It struck the barrier and stopped. That is, its forward motion stopped, but its
rolling did not. Its rate of revolution did not change; it either did not know or did not care
that its drivers were slipping on the smooth, hard sand; that it could not climb the vertical
metal plate; that it was not getting anywhere.
     "What a brain!" Northrop chortled, squatting down closer. "Why doesn't it back up
or turn around? It may be alive, but it certainly isn't very bright."
     The creature, now in the shadow of the 'Troncist's helmet, slowed down abruptly -
- went limp -- collapsed.
     "Get out of his light!" Jack snapped, and pushed his friend violently away; and as
the vicious sunlight struck it, the native revived and began to revolve as vigorously as
before. "I've got a hunch. Sounds screwy -- never heard of such a thing -- but it acts like
an energy-converter. Eats energy, raw and straight. No storage capacity -- on this world
he wouldn't need it -- a few more seconds in the shade would probably have killed him,
but there's no shade here. Therefore, he can't be dangerous."
     He reached out and touched the middle of the revolving shaft. Nothing happened.
He turned it at right angles to the plate. The thing rolled away in a straight line, perfectly
contented with the new direction. He recaptured it and stuck a test-prod lightly into the
sand, just ahead of its shaft and just inside one paddle wheel. Around and around that
slim wire the creature went: unable, it seemed, to escape from even such a simple trap;
perfectly willing, it seemed, to spend all the rest of its life traversing that tiny circle.
     "'What a brain!' is right, Mase," Jack exclaimed. "What a brain!"
     "This is wonderful, boys, really wonderful; something completely new to our
science." Samms' thought was deep with feeling. "I am going to see if I can reach its
mind or consciousness. Would you like to come along?"
     "Would we!"
     Samms tuned low and probed; lower and lower; deeper and deeper; and Jack
and Mase stayed with him. The thing was certainly alive; it throbbed and vibrated with
vitality: equally certainly, it was not very intelligent. But it had a definite consciousness of
its own existence; and therefore, however tiny and primitive, a mind. Although its
rudimentary ego could neither receive nor transmit thought, it knew that it was a fontema,
that it must roll and roll and roll, endlessly, that by virtue of determined rolling its species
would continue and would increase.
     "Well, that's one for the book!" Jack exclaimed, but Samms was entranced.
     "I would like to find one or two more of them, to find out . . . I think I'll take the
time. Can you see any more of them, either of you?"
     "No, but we can find some -- Stu!" Northrop called.
     "Yes?"
     "Look around, will you? Find us a couple more of these fontema things and flick
them over here with a tractor."
     "Coming up!" and in a few seconds they were there.
     "Are you photographing this, Lance?" Samms called the Chief Communications
Officer of the Chicago.
     "We certainly are, sir -- all of it. What are they, anyway? Animal, vegetable, or
mineral?"
     "I don't know. Probably no one of the three, strictly speaking. I'd like to take a
couple back to Tellus, but I'm afraid that they'd die, even under an atomic lamp. We'll
report to the Society."
     Jack liberated his captive and aimed it to pass within a few feet of one of the
newcomers, but the two fontemas did not ignore each other. Both swerved, so that they
came together wheel to wheel. The shafts bent toward each other, each into a right
angle. The angles touched and fused. The point of fusion swelled rapidly into a double
fist-sized lump. The half-shafts doubled in length. The lump split into four; became four
perfect paddle-wheels. Four full-grown fontemas rolled away from the spot upon which
two had met; their courses forming two mutually perpendicular straight lines.
     "Beautiful!" Samms exclaimed. "And notice, boys, the method of avoiding
inbreeding. Upon a perfectly smooth planet such as this, no two of those four can ever
meet, and the chance is almost vanishingly small that any of their first-generation
offspring will ever meet. But I'm afraid I've been wasting time. Take me back out to the
Chicago, please, and I'll be on my way."
     "You don't seem at all optimistic, sir," Jack ventured, as the NA774J approached
the Chicago.
     "Unfortunately, I am not. The signal will almost certainly come in from an
unpredictable direction, from a ship so far away that even a super-fast cruiser could not
get close enough to her to detect -- just a minute. Rod!" He Lensed the elder Kinnison so
sharply that both young Lensmen jumped.
     "What is it, Virge?"
     Samms explained rapidly, concluding: "So I would like to have you throw a globe
of scouts around this whole Zabriskan system. One detet* [*Detet û the distance at which one
spaceship can detect another, EES.] out and one detet apart, so as to be able to slap a tracer
onto any ship laying a beam to this planet, from any direction whatever. It would not take
too many scouts, would it?"
     "No; but it wouldn't be worth while."
     "Why not?"
     "Because it wouldn't prove a thing except what we already know -- that
Spaceways is involved in the thionite racket. The ship would be clean. Merely another
relay."
     "Oh. You're probably right." If Virgil Samms was in the least put out at this
cavalier dismissal of his idea, he made no sign. He thought intensely for a couple of
minutes. "You are right. I will have to work from the Cavenda end. How are you coming
with Operation Bennett?"
     "Nice!" Kinnison enthused. "When you get a couple of days, come over and see it
grow. This is a fine world, Virge -- it'll be ready!"
     "I'll do that." Samms broke the connection and called Dronvire.
     "The only change here is for the worse," the Rigellian reported, tersely. "The slight
positive correlation between deaths from thionite and the arrival of Spaceways vessels
has disappeared."
     There was no need to elaborate on that bare statement. Both Lensmen knew
what it meant. The enemy, either in anticipation of statistical analysis or for economic
reasons, was rationing his small supply of the drug.
     And DalNalten was very much unlike his usual equable self. He was glum and
unhappy; so much so that it took much urging to make him report at all.
     "We have, as you know, put our best operatives to work on the interplanetary
lines," he said finally, half sullenly. "We have secured quite a little data. The accumulating
facts, however, point more and more definitely toward an utterly preposterous
conclusion. Can you think of any valid reason why the exports and imports of thionite
between Tellus and Mars, Mars and Venus, and Venus and Tellus, should all be exactly
equal to each other?"
     "What!"
     "Precisely. That is why Knobos and I are not yet ready to present even a
preliminary report."
     Then Jill. "I can't prove it, any more than I could before, but I'm pretty sure that
Morgan is the Boss. I have drawn every picture I can think of with Isaacson in the driver's
seat, but none of them fit?" She paused, questioningly.
     "I am already reconciled to adopting that view; at least as a working hypothesis.
Go ahead."
     "The fact seems to be that Morgan has always had all the left-wingers of the
Nationalists under his' thumb. Now he and his man Friday, Representative Flierce, are
wooing all the radicals and so-called liberals on our side of both Senate and House -- a
new technique for him -- and they're offering plenty of the right kind of bait. He has the
commentators guessing, but there's no doubt whatever in my mind that he is aiming at
next Election Day and our Galactic Council."
     "And you and Dronvire are sitting idly by, doing nothing, of course?"
     "Of course!" Jill giggled, but sobered quickly. "He's a smooth, smooth worker,
Dad. We are organizing, of course, and putting out propaganda of our own, but there's
so pitifully little that we can actually do -- look and listen to this for a minute, and you'll
see what I mean."
     In her distant room Jill manipulated a reel and flipped a switch. A plate came to
life, showing Morgan's big, sweating, passionately earnest face.
     ". . and who are these Lensmen, anyway?" Morgan's voice bellowed, passionate
conviction in every syllable. "They are the hired minions of the classes, stabbers in the
back, crooks and scoundrels, TOOLS OF RUTHLESS WEALTH! They are hirelings of
the interplanetary bankers, those unspeakable excrescences on the body politic who are
still grinding down into the dirt, under an iron heel, the face of the common man! In the
guise of democracy they are trying to set up the worst, the most outrageous tyranny that
this universe has ever . . ." Jill snapped the switch viciously.
     "And a lot of people swallow that . . . that bilge!" she almost snarled. "If they had
the brains of a . . . of even that Zabriskan fontema Mase told me about, they wouldn't,
but they do!"
     "I know they do. We have known all along that he is a masterly actor; we now
know that he is more than that."
     "Yes, and we're finding out that no appeal to reason, no psychological counter-
measures, will work. Dronvire and I agree that you'll have to arrange matters so that you
can do solid months of stumping yourself. Personally."
     "It may come to that, but there's a lot of other things to do first."
     Samms broke the connection and thought. He did not consciously try to exclude
the two youths, but his mind was working so fast and in such a disjointed fashion that
they could catch only a few fragments. The incomprehensible vastness of space-tracing-
detection-Cavenda's one tiny, fast moving moon-back, and solidly, to DETECTION.
     "Muse," Samms thought then, carefully. "As a specialist in such things, why is it
that the detectors of the smallest scout-lifeboat, even -- have practically the same range
as those of the largest liners and battleships?"
     "Noise level and hash, sir, from the atomics."
     "But can't they be screened out?"
     "Not entirely, sir, without blocking reception completely."
     "I see. Suppose, then, that all atomics aboard were to be shut down; that for the
necessary heat and light we use electricity, from storage or primary batteries or from a
generator, driven by an internal-combustion motor or a heat-engine. Could the range of
detection then be increased?"
     "Tremendously, sir. My guess is that the limiting factor would then be the
cosmics."
     "I hope you're right. While you are waiting for the next signal to come in, you might
work out a preliminary design for such a detector. If, as I anticipate, this Zabriska proves
to be a dead end, Operation Zabriska ends here -- becomes a part of Zwilnik -- and you
two will follow me at max to Tellus. You, Jack, are very badly needed on Operation
Boskone. You and I, Mase, will make appropriate alterations aboard a J-class vessel of
the Patrol."

     CHAPTER 12

Approaching Cavenda in his dead-black, converted scoutship, Virgil Samms cut his drive,
killed his atomics, and turned on his super-powered detectors. For five full detets in
every direction -- throughout a spherical volume over ten detets in diameter -- space was
void of ships. Some activity was apparent upon the planet dead ahead, but the First
Lensman did not worry about that. The drug-runners would of course have atomics in
their plants, even if there were no space-ships actually on the planet -- which there
probably were. What he did worry about was detection. There would be plenty of
detectors, probably automatic; not only ordinary sub-ethereals, but electros and radars
as well.
     He flashed up to within one and a quarter detets, stopped, and checked again.
Space was still empty. Then, after making a series of observations, he went inert and
established an intrinsic velocity which, he hoped, would be close enough. He again shut
off his atomics and started the sixteen-cylinder Diesel engine which would do its best to
replace them.
     That best was none too good, but it would do. Besides driving the Bergenholm it
could furnish enough kilodynes of thrust to produce a velocity many times greater than
any attainable by inert matter. It used a lot of oxygen per minute, but it would not run for
very many minutes. With her atomics out of action his ship would not register upon the
plates of the long-range detectors universally used. Since she was nevertheless traveling
faster than light, neither electromagnetic detector-webs nor radar could "see" her. Good
enough.
     Samms was not the System's best computer, nor did he have the System's finest
instruments. His positional error could be corrected easily enough; but as he drove
nearer and nearer to Cavenda, keeping, toward the last, in line with its one small moon,
he wondered more and more as to bow much of an allowance he should make for error
in his intrinsic, which he had set up practically by guess. And there was another variable,
the cut-off. He slowed down to just over one light; but even at that comparatively slow
speed an error of one millisecond at cut-off meant a displacement of two hundred miles!
He switched the spotter into the Berg's cutoff circuit, set it for three hundred miles, and
waited tensely at his controls.
     The relays clicked, the driving force expired, the vessel went inert. Samms' eyes,
flashing from instrument to instrument, told him that matters could have been worse. His
intrinsic was neither straight up, as he had hoped, nor straight down, as he had feared,
but almost exactly half-way between the two -- straight out. He discovered that fact just
in time; in another second or two he would have been out beyond the moon's protecting
bulk and thus detectable from Cavenda. He went free, flashed back to the opposite
boundary of his area of safety, went inert, and put the full power of the bellowing Diesel
to the task of bucking down his erroneous intrinsic losing altitude continuously. Again and
again be repeated the maneuver; and thus, grimly and stubbornly, he fought his ship to
ground.
     He was very glad to see that the surface of the satellite was rougher, rockier,
ruggeder, and more cratered even than that of Earth's Luna. Upon such a terrain as this,
it would be next to impossible to spot even a moving vessel -- if it moved carefully.
     By a series of short and careful inertialess hops -- correcting his intrinsic velocity
after each one by an inert collision with the ground -- he maneuvered his vessel into such
a position that Cavenda's enormous globe hung directly overhead. Breathing a profoundly
deep breath of relief he killed the big engine, cut in his fully-charged accumulators, and
turned on detector and spy-ray. He would see what he could see.

His detectors showed that there was only one point of activity on the whole planet. He
located it precisely; then, after cutting his spy-ray to minimum power, he approached it
gingerly, yard by yard. Stopped! As he had more than half expected, there was a spy-
ray block. A big one, almost two miles in diameter. It would be almost directly beneath
him û or rather, almost straight overhead -- in about three hours.
     Samms had brought along a telescope, considerably more powerful than the
telescopic visiplate of his scout. Since the surface gravity of this moon was low --
scarcely one-fifth that of Earth -- he had no difficulty in lugging the parts out of the ship or
in setting the thing up.
     But even the telescope did not do much good. The moon was close to Cavenda,
as astronomical distances go -- but really worth-while astronomical optical instruments
simply are not portable. Thus the Lensman saw something that, by sufficient stretch of
the imagination, could have been a factory; and, eyes straining at the tantalizing limit of
visibility, he even made himself believe that he saw a toothpick-shaped object and a
darkly circular blob, either of which could have been the space-ship of the outlaws. He
was sure, however, of two facts. There were no real cities upon Cavenda. There were
no modern spaceports, or even air-fields.
     He dismounted the 'scope, stored it, set his detectors, and waited. He had to
sleep at times, of course; but any ordinary detector rig can be set to sound off at any
change in its status -- and Samms' was no ordinary rig. Wherefore, when the drug-
mongers' vessel took off, Samms left Cavenda as unobtrusively as he had approached it,
and swung into that vessel's line.
     Samms' strategy had been worked out long since. On his Diesel, at a distance of
just over one detet, he would follow the outlaw as fast as he could; long enough to
establish his line. He would then switch to atomic drive and close up to between one and
two detets; then again go onto Diesel for a check. He would keep this up for as long as
might prove necessary.
     As far as any of the Lensmen knew, Spaceways always used regular liners or
freighters in this business, and this scout was much faster than any such vessel. And
even if -- highly improbable thought! -- the enemy ship was faster than his own, it would
still be within range of those detectors when it got to wherever it was that it was going.
But how wrong Samms was!
     At his first check, instead of being not over two detets away the quarry was three
and a half; at the second the distance was four and a quarter; at the third, almost exactly
five. Scowling, Samms watched the erstwhile brilliant point of light fade into darkness.
That circular blob that he had almost seen, then, had been the space-ship, but it had not
been a sphere, as he had supposed. Instead, it had been a teardrop; sticking, sharp tail
down in the ground. Ultra-fast. This was the result. But ideas had blown up under him
before, they probably would again. He resumed atomic drive and made arrangements
with the Port Admiral to rendezvous with him and the Chicago at the earliest possible
time.
     "What is there along that line?" he demanded of the superdreadnaught's Chief
Pilot, even before junction had been made.
     "Nothing, sir, that we know of," that worthy reported, after studying his charts.
     He boarded the gigantic ship of war, and with Kinnison pored over those same
charts.
     "Your best bet is Eridan, I think," Kinnison concluded finally. "Not too near your
line, but they could very easily figure that a one-day dogleg would be a good investment.
And Spaceways owns it, you know, from core to planetary limits -- the richest uranium
mines in existence. Made to order. Nobody would suspect a uranium ship. How about
throwing a globe around Eridan?"
     Samms thought for minutes. "No . . . not yet, at least. We don't know enough yet."
     "I know it -- that's why it looks to me like a good time and place to learn
something," Kinnison argued. "We know -- almost know, at least -- that a super-fast ship,
carrying thionite, has just landed there. This is the hottest lead we've had. I say englobe
the planet, declare martial law, and not let anything in or out until we find it. Somebody
there must know something, a lot more than we do. I say hunt him out and make him
talk."
     "You're just popping off, Rod. You know as well as I do that nabbing a few of the
small fry isn't enough. We can't move openly until we can strike high."
     "I suppose not," Kinnison grumbled. "But we know so damned little, Virgel"
     "Little enough," Samms agreed. "Of the three main divisions, only the political
aspect is at all clear. In the drug division, we know where thionite comes from and where
it is processed, and Eridan may be -- probably is -- another link. On the other end, we
know a lot of peddlers and a few middlemen -- nobody higher. We have no actual
knowledge whatever as to who the higher-ups are or how they work; and it's the bosses
we want. Concerning the pirates, we know even less. `Murgatroyd' may be no more a
man's name than `zwilnik' is . . ."
     "Before you get too far away from the subject, what are you going to do about
Eridan?"
     "Nothing, for the moment, would be best, I believe. However, Knobos and
DalNalten should switch their attention from Spaceways' passenger liners to the uranium
ships from Eridan to all three of the inner planets. Check?"
     "Check. Particularly since it explains so beautifully the merry-go-round they have
been on so long -- chasing the same packages of dope backwards and forwards so
many times that the corners of the boxes got worn round. We've got to get the top men,
and they're smart. Which reminds me -- Morgan as Big Boss does not square up with the
Morgan that you and Fairchild smacked down so easily when he tried to investigate the
Hill. A loud-mouthed, chiseling politician might have a lock-box full of documentary
evidence about party bosses and power deals and chorus girls and Martian tekkyl coats,
but the man we're after very definitely would not"
     "You're telling me?" This point was such a sore one that Samms relapsed into
idiom. "The boys should have cracked that box a week ago,( but they struck a knot. I'll
see if they know anything yet. Tune in, Rod. Ray!" He Lensed a thought at his cousin.
     "Yes, Virge?"
     "Have you got a spy-ray into that lock-box yet?"
     "Glad you called. Yes, last night. Empty. Empty as a sub-deb's skull-except for an
atomic-powered gimmick that it took Bergenholm's whole laboratory almost a week to
neutralize."
     "I see. Thanks. Off." Samms turned to Kinnison. "Well?"
     "Nice. A mighty smart operator." Kinnison gave credit ungrudgingly. "Now I'll buy
your picture -- what a man! But now -- and I've got my ears pinned back -- what was it
you started to say about pirates?"
     "Just that we have very little to go on, except for the kind of stuff they seem to like
best, and the fact that even armed escorts have not been able to protect certain types of
shipments of late. The escorts, too, have disappeared. But with these facts as bases, it
seems to me that we could arrange something, perhaps like this . . ."
     A fast, sleek freighter and a heavy battle-cruiser bored steadily through the inter-
stellar void. The merchantman carried a fabulously valuable cargo: not bullion or jewels
or plate of price, but things literally above price -- machine tools of highest precision,
delicate optical and electrical instruments, fine watches and chronometers. She also
carried First Lensman Virgil Samms.
     And aboard the war-ship there was Roderick Kinnison; for the first time in history
a mere battle-cruiser bore a Port Admiral's flag.
     As far as the detectors of those two ships could reach, space was empty of man-
made craft; but the two Lensmen knew that they were not alone. One and one-half
detets away, loafing along at the freighter's speed and paralleling her course, in a
hemispherical formation open to the front, there flew six tremendous tear-drops;
superdreadnaughts of whose existence no Tellurian or Colonial government had even an
inkling. They were the fastest and deadliest craft yet built by man -- the first fruits of
Operation Bennett. And they, too, carried Lensmen-Costigan, Jack Kinnison, Northrop,
Dronvire of Rigel Four, Rodebush, and Cleveland. Nor was there need of detectors: the
eight Lensmen were in as close communication as though they had been standing in the
same room.
     "On your toes, men," came Samms' quiet thought. "We are about to pass within a
few light-minutes of an uninhabited solar system. No Tellurian-type planets at all. This
may be it. Tune to Kinnison on one side and to your captains on the other. Take over,
Rod."
     At one instant the ether, for one full detet in every direction, was empty. In the
next, three intensely brilliant spots of detection flashed into being, in line with the dead
planet so invitingly close at hand.
     This development came as a surprise, since only two raiders had been expected:
a battleship to take care of the escort, a cruiser to take the merchantman. The fact that
the pirates had become cautious or suspicious and had sent three superdreadnaughts on
the mission, however, did not operate to change the Patrol's strategy; for Samms had
concluded, and Dronvire and Bergenholm and Rularion of Jupiter had agreed, that the
real commander of the expedition would be aboard the vessel that attacked the freighter.
     In the next instant, then -- each Lensman saw what Roderick Kinnison saw, in the
very instant of his seeing it -- six more points of hard, white light sprang into being upon
the plates of guileful freighter and decoying cruiser.
     "Jack and Mase, take the leader!" Kinnison snapped out the thought. "Dronvire
and -- Costigan, right wing û he's the one that's going after the freighter. Fred and
Lyman, left wing. Hipe!"
     The pirate ships flashed up, falling ether and sub-ether alike with a solid mush of
interference through which no call for help could be driven; two superdreadnaughts
against the cruiser, one against the freighter. The former, of course, had been expected
to offer more than a token resistance. Battle cruisers of the Patrol were powerful
vessels, both on offense and defense, and it was a known and recognized fact that the
men of the Patrol were men. The pirate commander who attacked the freighter,
however, was a surprised pirate indeed. His first beam, directed well forward, well
ahead of the precious cargo, should have wrought the same havoc against screens and
wall-shields and structure as a white-hot poker would against a pat of Luke-warm butter.
Practically the whole nose-section, including the control room, should have whiffed
outward -- into space in gobbets and streamers of molten and gaseous metal. But
nothing of the sort happened -- this merchantman was no push-over!
     No ordinary screens protected that particular freighter and the person of First
Lensman Samms -- Roderick Kinnison bad very thoroughly seen to that. In sheer mass
her screen generators outweighed her entire cargo, heavy as that cargo was, by more
than two to one. Thus the pirate's beams stormed and struck and clawed and clung --
uselessly. They did not penetrate. And as the surprised attacker shoved his power up
and up, to his absolute ceiling of effort, the only result was to increase the already
tremendous pyrotechnic display of energies cascading in all directions from the fiercely
radiant defenses of the Tellurian freighter.
     And in a few seconds the commanding officers of the other two attacking
battleships were also surprised. The battlecruiser's screens did not go down, even under
the combined top effort of two superdreadnaughts! And she did not have a beam hot
enough to light a match -- she must be all screen! But before the startled outlaws could
do anything about the realization that they, instead of being the trappers, were in cold
fact the trapped, all three of them were surprised again -- the last surprise that any of
them was ever to receive. Six mighty tear-drops -- vastly bigger, faster, more powerful
than their own -- were rushing upon them, blanketing all channels of communication as
efficiently and as enthusiastically as they themselves had been doing an instant before.
     Being out simply and ruthlessly to kill, and not to capture, four of the newcomers
from Bennett polished off the cruiser's two attackers in very short order. They simply
flashed in, went inert at the four corners of an imaginary tetrahedron, and threw
everything they had -- and they had plenty. Possibly -- just barely possibly -- there may
have been, somewhere, a space-battle shorter than that one; but there certainly was
never one more violent.
     Then the four set out after their two sister-ships and the one remaining pirate, who
was frantically devoting his every effort to the avoidance of engagement. But with six
ships, each one of which was of vastly greater individual power than his own, at the six
corners of an octahedron of which he was the geometrical center, his ability to cut tractor
beams and to "squirt out" from between two opposed pressors did him no good
whatever. He was englobed; or, rather, to apply the correct terminology to an operation
involving so few units, he was "boxed".
     To blow the one remaining raider out of the ether would have been easy enough,
but that was exactly what the Patrolmen did not want to do. They wanted information.
Wherefore each of the Patrol ships directed a dozen or so beams upon the scintillating
protective screens of the enemy; enough so that every square yard of defensive web
was under direct attack. As rapidly as it could be done without losing equilibrium or
synchronization, the power of each beam was stepped up until the wildly violet
incandescence of the pirate screen showed that it was hovering on the very edge of
failure. Then, in the instant, needle-beamers went furiously to work. The screen was
already loaded to its limit; no transfer of defensive energy was possible. Thus,
tremendously overloaded locally, locally it flared through the ultra-violet into the black and
went down; and the fiercely penetrant daggers of pure force stabbed and stabbed and
stabbed.
     The engine room went first, even though the needlers had to gnaw a hundred-foot
hole straight through the pirate craft in order to find the vital installations. Then, enough
damage done so that spy-rays could get in, the rest of the work was done with precision
and dispatch. In a matter of seconds the pirate hulk lay helpless, and the Patrolmen
peeled her like an orange r, rather, more like an amateur cook very wastefully peeling a
potato. Resistless knives of energy sheared off tail-section and nose-section, top and
bottom, port and starboard sides; then slabbed off the corners of what was left, until the
control room was almost bared to space.
     Then, as soon as the intrinsic velocities could possibly be matched, board and
storm! With Dronvire of Rigel Four in the lead, closely followed by Costigan, Northrop,
Kinnison the Younger, and a platoon of armed and armored. Space Marines!
     Samms and the two scientists did not belong in such a melee as that which was to
come, and knew it. Kinnison the Elder did not belong, either, but did not know it. In fact,
be cursed fluently and bitterly at having to stay out -- nevertheless, out he stayed.
     Dronvire, on the other hand, did not like to fight. The very thought of actual, bodily,
hand-to-hand combat revolted every fiber of his being. In view of what the spy-ray men
were reporting, however, and of what all the Lensmen knew of pirate psychology,
Dronvire had to get into that control room first, and he had to get there fast. And if he
had to fight, he could; and, physically, he was wonderfully well equipped for just such
activity. To his immense physical strength, the natural concomitant of a force of gravity
more than twice Earth's, the armor which so encumbered the Tellurian bafflers was a
scarcely noticeable impediment. His sense of perception, which could not be barred by
any material substance, kept him fully informed of every development in his
neighborhood. His literally incredible speed enabled him not merely to parry a blow aimed
at him, but to bash out the brains of the would-be attacker before that blow could be
more than started. And whereas a human being can swing only one space-axe or fire
only two ray-guns at a time, the Rigellian plunged through space toward what was left of
the pirate vessel, swinging not one or two space-axes, but four; each held in a lithe and
supple, but immensely strong, tentacular "hand".
     Why axes? Why not Lewistons, or rifles, or pistols? Because the space armor of
that day could withstand almost indefinitely the output of two or three hand-held
projectors; because the resistance of its defensive fields varied directly as the cube of
the velocity of any material projectile encountering them. Thus, and strangely enough, the
advance of science had forced the re-adoption of that long-extinct weapon.
     Most of the pirates had died, of course, during the dismemberment of their ship.
Many more had been picked off by the needle-beam gunners. In the control room,
however, there was a platoon of elite guards, clustered so closely about the commander
and his officers that needles could not be used; a group that would have to be wiped out
by hand.
     If the attack had come by way of the only doorway, so that the pirates could have
concentrated their weapons upon one or two Patrolmen, the commander might have had
time enough to do what he was under compulsion to do. But while the Patrolmen were
still in space a plane of force sheared off the entire side of the room, a tractor beam
jerked the detached wall away, and the attackers floated in en masse.
     Weightless combat is not at all like any form of gymnastics known to us ground-
grippers. It is much more difficult to master, and in times of stress the muscles revert
involuntarily and embarrassingly to their wonted gravity-field techniques. Thus the
endeavors of most of the bafflers upon both sides, while earnest enough and deadly
enough of intent, were almost comically unproductive of result. In a matter of seconds
frantically-struggling figures were floating from wall to ceiling to wall to floor; striking
wildly, darting backward from the violence of their own fierce swings.
     The Tellurian Lensman, however, had had more practice and remembered their
lessons better. Jack Kinnison, soaring into the room, grabbed the first solid thing he
could reach; a post. Pulling himself down to the floor, he braced both feet, sighted past
the nearest foeman, swung his axe, and gave a tremendous shove. Such was his timing
that in the instant of maximum effort the beak of his atrociously effective weapon
encountered the pirate's helmet -- and that was that. He wrenched his axe free and
shoved the corpse away in such a direction that the reaction would send him against a
wall at the floor line, in position to repeat the maneuver.
     Since Mason Northrop was heavier and stronger than his friend, his technique was
markedly different. He dove for the chart-table, which of course was welded to the floor.
He hooked one steel-shod foot around one of the table's legs and braced the other
against its top. Weightless but inert, it made no difference whether his position was
vertical or horizontal or anywhere between; from this point of vantage, with his length of
body and arm and axe, he could cover a lot of room. He reached out, hooked bill of axe
into belt or line-snap or angle of armor, and pulled; and as the helplessly raging pirate
floated past him, he swung and struck. And that, too, was that.
     Dronvire of Rigel Four did not rush to the attack. He had never been and was not
now either excited or angry. Indeed, it was only empirically that he knew what anger and
excitement were. He had never been in any kind of a fight. Therefore he paused for a
couple of seconds to analyze the situation and to determine his own most efficient
method of operation. He would not have to be in physical contact with the pirate captain
to go to work on his mind, but he would have to be closer than this and he would have to
be free from physical attack while he concentrated. He perceived what Kinnison and
Costigan and Northrop were doing, and knew why each was working in a different
fashion. He applied that knowledge to his own mass, to his own musculature, to the
length and strength of his arms -- each one of which was twice as long and ten times as
strong as the trunk of an elephant. He computed forces and leverages, actions and
reactions, points of application, stresses and strains.
     He threw away two of his axes. The two empty arms reached out, each curling
around the neck of a pirate. Two axes flashed, grazing each pinioning arm so nearly that
it seemed incredible that the sharp edges did not shear away the Rigellian's own armor.
Two heads floated away from two bodies and Dronvire reached for two more. And two-
and two-and two. Calm and dispassionate, but not wasting a motion or a millisecond,
Dronvire accomplished more, in less time, than all the Tellurians in the room.
     "Costigan, Northrop, Kinnison -- attend!" he launched a thought. "I have no time to
kill more of them. The commander is dying of a self-inflicted wound and I have important
work to do. See to it, please, that these remaining creatures do not attack me while I am
doing it."
     Dronvire tuned his mind to that of the pirate and probed. Although dying, the pirate
captain offered fierce resistance, but the Rigellian was not alone. Attuned to his mind,
working smoothly with it, giving it strengths and qualities which no Rigellian ever had had
or ever would have, were the two strongest minds of Earth: that of Rod the Rock
Kinnison, with the driving force, the indomitable will, the transcendent urge of all human
heredity; and that of Virgil Samms, with all that had made him First Lensman.
     "TELL!" that terrific triple mind demanded, with a force which simply could not be
denied. "WHERE ARE YOU FROM? Resistance is useless; yours or that of those whom
you serve. Your bases and powers are smaller and weaker than ours, since Spaceways
is only a corporation and we are the Galactic Patrol. TELL! WHO ARE YOUR BOSSES?
TELL -- TELL!"
     Under that irresistible urge there appeared, foggily and without any hint of
knowledge of name or of spatial coordinates, an embattled planet, very similar in a
smaller way to the Patrol's own Bennett, and even more foggily, but still not so blurred
but that their features were unmistakably recognizable, the images of two men. That of
Murgatroyd, the pirate chief, completely strange to both Kinnison and Samms; and --
Back of Murgatroyd and above him, that of --
BIG JIM TOWNE!

     CHAPTER 13

"First, about Murgatroyd." In his office in The Hill Roderick Kinnison spoke aloud to the
First Lensman. "What do you think should be done about him?"
     "Murgatroyd. Hm . . . m . . . m." Samms inhaled a mouthful of smoke and exhaled
it slowly; watched it dissipate in the air. "Ah, yes, Murgatroyd." He repeated the
performance. "My thought, at the moment, is to let him alone."
     "Check," Kinnison said. If Samms was surprised at his friend's concurrence he did
not show it. "Why? Let's see if we check on that."
     "Because he does not seem to be of fundamental importance. Even if we could
find him . . . and by the way, what do you think the chance is of our spies finding him?"
     "Just about the same chance that theirs have of finding out about the Samms-
Olmstead switch or our planet Bennett. Vanishingly small. Zero."
     "Right. And even if we could find him -- even find their secret base, which is
certainly as well hidden as ours is -- it would do us no present good, because we could
take no positive action. We have, I think, learned the prime fact; that Towne is actually
Murgatroyd's superior."
     "That's the way I see it. We can almost draw an organization chart now."
     "I wouldn't say 'almost'." Samms smiled half-ruefully. "There are gaping holes, and
Isaacson is as yet a highly unknown quantity. I've tried to draw one a dozen times, but
we haven't got enough information. An incorrect chart, you know, would be worse than
none at all. As soon as I can draw a correct one, I'll show it to you. But in the meantime,
the position of our friend James F. Towne is now clear. He is actually a Big Shot in both
piracy and politics. That fact surprised me, even though it did clarify the picture
tremendously."
     "Me, too. One good thing, we won't have to hunt for him. You've been working on
him right along, though, haven't you?"
     "Yes, but this new relationship throws light on a good many details which have
been obscure. It also tends to strengthen our working hypothesis as to Isaacson -- which
we can't prove yet, of course -- that he is the actual working head of the drug syndicate.
Vice-President in charge of Drugs, so to speak."
     "Hub? That's a new one on me. I don't see it."
     "There is very little doubt that at the top there is Morgan. He is, and has been for
some time, the real boss of North America. Under him, probably taking orders direct, is
President Witherspoon."
     "Undoubtedly. The Nationalist party is strictly a la machine, and Witherspoon is
one of the world's slimiest skinkers. Morgan is Chief Engineer of the Machine. Take it
from there."
     "We know that Boss Jim is also in the top echelon -- quite possibly the
Commander-in-Chief-of the enemy's Armed Forces. By analogy, and since Isaacson is
apparently on the same level as Towne, immediately below Morgan . . ."
     "Wouldn't there be three? Witherspoon?"
     "I doubt it. My present idea is that Witherspoon is at least one level lower.
Comparatively small fry."
     "Could be -- I'll buy it. A nice picture, Virge; and beautifully symmetrical. His
Mightiness Morgan. Secretary of War Towne and Secretary of Drugs Isaacson; and
each of them putting a heavy shoulder behind the political bandwagon. Very nice. That
makes Operation Mateese tougher than ever -- a triple-distilled toughie. Glad I told you it
wasn't my dish -- saves me the trouble of backing out now."
     "Yes, I have noticed how prone you are to duck tough jobs." Samms smiled
quietly. "However, unless I am even more mistaken than usual, you will be in it up to your
not-so-small ears, my friend, before it is over."
     "Huh? How?" Kinnison demanded.
     "That will, I hope, become clear very shortly." Samms stubbed out the butt of his
cigarette and lit another. "The basic problem can be stated very simply. How are we
going to persuade the sovereign countries of Earth -- particularly the North American
Continent -- to grant the Galactic Patrol the tremendous power and authority it will have
to have?"
     "Nice phrasing, Virge, and studied. Not off the cuff. But aren't you over-drawing a
bit? Little if any conflict. The Patrol would be pretty largely inter-systemic in scope . . .
with of course the necessary inter-planetary and intercontinental . . . and . . . um . . . m .
. :'
     "Exactly."
     "But it's logical enough, Virge, even at that, and has plenty of precedents, clear
back to ancient history 'Way back, before space-travel, when they first started to use
atomic energy, and the only drugs they had to worry about were cocaine, morphine,
heroin, and other purely Tellurian products. I was reading about it just the other day."
     Kinnison swung around, fingered a book out of a matched set, and riffled its
leaves. "Russia was the world's problem child then -- put up what they called an iron
curtain -- wouldn't play with the neighbors' children, but picked up her marbles and went
home. But yet -- here it is. Original source unknown -- some indications point to a report
of somebody named Hoover, sometime in the nineteen forties or fifties, Gregorian
calendar. Listen:
     "This protocol' -- he's talking about the agreement on world-wide Narcotics
Control -- 'was signed by fifty-two nations, including the U.S.S.R.' -- that was Russia --
'and its satellite states. It was the only international agreement to which the Communist
countries' -- you know more about what Communism was, I suppose, than I do."
     "Just that it was another form of dictatorship that didn't work out."
     ". . . to which the Communist countries ever gave more than lip service. This
adherence is all the more, surprising, in view of the political situation then obtaining, in
that all signatory nations obligated themselves to surrender national sovereignty in five
highly significant respects, as follows:
     "First, to permit Narcotics agents of all other signatory nations free, secret, and
unregistered entry into, unrestricted travel throughout, and exit from, all their lands and
waters, wherever situate:
     "Second, upon request, to allow known criminals and known contraband to enter
and to leave their territories without interference:
     "Third, to cooperate fully, and as a secondary and not as a prime mover, in any
Narcotics Patrol program setup by any other signatory nation:
     "'Fourth, upon request, to maintain complete secrecy concerning any Narcotics
operation: and
     "Fifth, to keep the Central Narcotics Authority fully and continuously informed upon
all matters hereinbefore specified."
     "And apparently, Virge, it worked. If they could do that, 'way back then, we
certainly should be able to make the Patrol work now."
     "You talk as though the situations were comparable. They aren't. Instead of giving
up an insignificant fraction of their national sovereignty, all nations will have to give up
practically all of it. They will have to change their thinking from a National to a Galactic
viewpoint; will have 4 become units in a Galactic Civilization, just as counties used to be
units of states, and states are units of the continents. The Galactic Patrol will not be able
to stop at being the supreme and only authority in inter-systemic affairs. It is bound to
become intra-systemic, intra-planetary, and intra-continental. Eventually, it must and it
shall be the sole authority, except for such purely local organizations as city police."
     "What a program!" Kinnison thought silently for minutes. "But I'm still betting that
you can bring it off."
     "We'll keep on driving until we do. What gives us our chance is that the all-
Lensman Solarian Council is already in existence and is functioning smoothly; and that the
government of North America has no jurisdiction beyond the boundaries of its continent.
Thus, and even though Morgan has extra-legal powers both as Boss of North America
and as the head of an organization which is in fact inter-systemic in scope, he can do
nothing whatever about the fact that the Solarian Council has been enlarged into the
Galactic Council. As a matter of fact, he was and is very much in favor of that particular
move -- just as much so as we are."
     "You're going too fast for me. How do you figure that?"
     "Unlike our idea of the Patrol as a coordinator of free and independent races,
Morgan sees it as the perfect instrument of a Galactic dictatorship, thus: North America
is the most powerful continent of Earth. The other continents will follow her lead -- or
else. Tellus can very easily dominate the other Solarian planets, and the Solar System
can maintain dominance over all other systems as they are discovered and colonized.
Therefore, whoever controls the North American Continent controls all space."

"I see. Could be, at that. Throw the Lensmen out, put his own stooges in. Wonder how
he'll go about it? A tour de force? No. The next election, would be my guess. If so, that
will be the most important election in history."
     "If they decide to wait for the election, yes. I'm not as sure as you seem to be that
they will not act sooner."
     "They can't," Kinnison declared. "Name me one thing they think they can do, and
I'll shoot it fuller of holes than a target."
     "They can, and I am very much afraid that they will," Samms replied, soberly. "At
any time he cares to do so, Morgan -- through the North American Government, of
course -- can abrogate the treaty and name his own Council."
     "Without my boys -- the backbone and the guts of North America as well as of the
Patrol? Don't be stupid, Virge. They're loyal."
     "Admitted -- but at the same time they are being paid in North American currency.
Of course, we will soon have our own Galactic credit system worked out, but . . ."
     "What the hell difference would that make?" Kinnison wanted savagely to know.
"You think they'd last until the next pay-day if they start playing that kind of ball? What in
hell do you think I'd be doing? And Clayton and Schweikert and the rest of the gang?
Sitting on our fat rumps and crying into our beers?"
     "You would do nothing. I could not permit any illegal . . ."
     "Permit!" Kinnison blazed, leaping to his feet. "Permit -- hell! Are you loose-
screwed enough to actually think I would ask or need your permission? Listen, Samms!"
The Port Admiral's voice took on a quality like nothing his friend had ever before heard.
"The first thing I would do would be to take off your Lens, wrap you up -- especially your
mouth -- in seventeen yards of three-inch adhesive tape, and heave you into the brig. The
second would be to call out everything we've got, including every half-built ship on
Bennett able to fly, and declare martial law. The third would be a series of summary
executions, starting with Morgan and working down. And if he's got any fraction of the
brain I credit him with, Morgan knows damned well exactly what would happen."
     "Oh." Samms, while very much taken aback, was thrilled to the center of his
being. "I had not considered anything so drastic, but you probably would . . ."
     "Not 'probably'," Kinnison corrected him grimly. "'Certainly!"
     ". . . and Morgan does know . . . except about Bennett, of course . . . and he
would not, for obvious reasons, bring in his secret armed forces. You're right, Rod, it will
be the election."

"Definitely; and it's plain enough what their basic strategy will be." Kinnison, completely
mollified, sat down and lit another cigar. "His Nationalist party is now in power, but it was
our Cosmocrats of the previous administration who so basely slipped one over on the
dear pee-pul -- who betrayed the entire North American Continent into the claws of
rapacious wealth, no less -- by ratifying that unlawful, unhallowed, unconstitutional, and
so on, treaty. Scoundrels! Bribe-takers! Betrayers of a sacred trust! How Rabble-Rouser
Morgan will thump the tub on that theme -- he'll make the welkin ring as it never rang
before."
     Kinnison mimicked savagely the demagogue's round and purple tones as he went
on: " `Since they had no mandate from the pee-pul to trade their birthright for a mess of
pottage that nefarious and underhanded treaty is, a prima vista and ipso facto and a
priori, completely and necessarily and positively null and void. People of Earth, arise!
Arise! Rise in your might and throw off this stultifying and degrading, this paralyzing yoke
of the Monied Powers -- throw out this dictatorial, autocratic, wealth-directed, illegal,
monstrous Council of so-called Lensmen! Rise in your might at the polls! Elect a Council
of your own choosing -- not of Lensmen, but of ordinary folks like you and me. Throw off
this hellish yoke, I say!' -- and here he begins to positively froth at the mouth -- ',so that
government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the
Earth!'
     "He has used that exact peroration, ancient as it is, so many times that practically
everybody thinks he originated it; and it's always good for so many decibels of applause
that he'll keep on using it forever."
     "Your analysis is vivid, cogent, and factual, Rod -- but the situation is not at all
funny."
     "Did I act as though I thought it was? If so, I'm a damned poor actor. I'd like to
kick the bloodsucking leech all the way from here to the Great Nebula in Andromeda, and
if I ever get the chance I'm going to!"
     "An interesting, but somewhat irrelevant idea." Samms smiled at his friend's
passionate outburst. "But go on. I agree with you in principle so far, and your viewpoint is
-- to say the least -- refreshing."
     "Well, Morgan will have so hypnotized most of the dear pee-pul that they will think
it their own idea when he renominates this spineless nincompoop Witherspoon for
another term as President of North America, with a solid machine-made slate of hatchet-
men behind him. They win the election. Then the government of the North American
Continent û not the Morgan-Towne-Isaacson machine, but all nice and legal and by
mandate and in strict accordance with the party platform -- abrogates the treaty and
names its own Council. And right then, my friend, the boys and I will do our stuff."
     "Except that, in such a case, you wouldn't. Think it over, Rod."
     "Why not?" Kinnison demanded, in a voice which, however, did not carry much
conviction.
     "Because we would be in the wrong; and we are even less able to go against
united public opinion than is the Morgan crowd."
     "We'd do something -- I've got it!" Kinnison banged the desk with his fist. "That
would be a strictly unilateral action. North America would be standing alone."
     "Of course."
     "So we'll pull all the Cosmocrats and all of our friends out of North America --
move them to Bennett or somewhere -- and make Morgan and Company a present of it.
We won't declare martial law or kill anybody, unless they decide to call in their reserves.
We'll merely isolate the whole damned continent -- throw a screen around it and over it
that a microbe won't be able to get through -- one that would make that iron curtain I
read about look like a bride's veil -- and we'll keep them isolated until they beg to join up
on our terms. Strictly legal, and the perfect solution. How about me giving the boys a
briefing on it, right now?"
     "Not yet." Samms' mien, however, lightened markedly. "I never thought of that
way out . . . It could be done, and it would probably work, but I would not recommend it
except as an ultimately last resort. It has at least two tremendous drawbacks."
     "I know it, but . . ."
     "It would wreck North America as no nation has ever been wrecked; quite possibly
beyond recovery. Furthermore, how many people, including yourself and your children,
would like to renounce their North American citizenship and remove themselves,
permanently and irrevocably, from North American soil?"
     "Um . . . m . . . m. Put that away, it doesn't sound so good, does it? But what the
hell else can we do?"
     "Just what we have been planning on doing. We must win the election."
     "Huh?" Kinnison's mouth almost fell open. "You say it easy. How? With whom? By
what stretch of the imagination do you figure that you can find anybody with a loose
enough mouth to out-lie and out-promise Morgan? And can you duplicate his machine?"
     "We can not only duplicate his machine; we can better it. The truth, presented to
the people in language they can understand and appreciate, by a man whom they like,
admire, and respect, will be more attractive than Morgan's promises. The same truth will
dispose of Morgan's lies."
     "Well, go on. You've answered my questions, after a fashion, except the stinger.
Does the Council think it's got a man with enough dynage to lift the load?"
     "Unanimously. They also agreed unanimously that we have only one. Haven't you
any idea who he is?"
     "Not a glimmering of one." Kinnison frowned in thought, then his face cleared into
a broad grin and he yelled: "What a damn fool I am -- you, of course!"
     "Wrong. I was not even seriously considered. It was the consensus that I could
not possibly win. My work has been such as to keep me out of the public eye. If the man
in the street thinks of me at all, he thinks that I hold myself apart and above him -- the
ivory tower concept."
     "Could be, at that; but you've got my curiosity aroused. How can a man of that
caliber have been kicking around so long without me knowing anything about him?"
     "You do. That's what I've been working around to all afternoon. You."
     "Huh?" Kinnison gasped as though he had received a blow in the solar plexus.
"Me? ME? Hell's-Brazen-Hinges!"
     "Exactly. You." Silencing Kinnison's inarticulate protests, Samms went on: "First,
you'll have no difficulty in talking to an audience as you've just talked to me."
     "Of course not -- but did I use any language that would burn out the transmitters?
I don't remember whether I did or not."
     "I don't, either. You probably did, but that would be nothing new. Telenews has
never yet cut you off the ether because of it. The point is this: while you do not realize .it,
you are a better tub-thumper and welkin-ringer than Morgan is, when something -- such
as just now -- really gets you going. And as for a machine, what finer one is possible
than the Patrol? Everybody in it or connected with it will support you to the hilt -- you
know that."
     "Why, I . . . I suppose so . . . probably they would, yes."
     "Do you know why?"
     "Can't say that I do, unless it's because I treat them fair, so they do the same to
me."
     "Exactly. I don't say that everybody likes you, but I don't know of anybody who
doesn't respect you. And, most important, everybody -- all over space -- knows `Rod the
Rock' Kinnison, and why he is called that."
     "But that very 'man on horseback' thing may backfire on you, Virge."
     "Perhaps -- slightly -- but we're not afraid of that. And finally, you said you'd like to
kick Morgan from here to Andromeda. How would you like to kick him from Panama City
to the North Pole?"
     "I said it, and I wasn't just warming up my jets, either. I'd like it." The big
Lensman's nostrils flared, his lips thinned. "By God, Virge, I will!"
     "Thanks, Rod." With no display whatever of the emotion he felt, Samms skipped
deliberately to the matter next in hand. "Now, about Eridan. Let's see if they know
anything yet.,.
     The report of Knobos and DalNalten was terse and exact. They had found -- and
that finding, so baldly put, could have filled and should fill a book -- that Spaceways'
uranium vessels were, beyond any reasonable doubt, hauling thionite from Eridan to the
planets of Sol. Spy-rays being useless, they had considered the advisability of
investigating Eridan in person, but had decided against such action. Eridan was closely
held by Uranium, Incorporated. Its population was one hundred percent Tellurian human.
Neither DalNalten nor Knobos could disguise himself well enough to work there. Either
would be caught promptly, and as promptly shot.
     "Thanks, fellows," Samms said, when it became evident that the brief report was
done. Then, to Kinnison, "That puts it up to Conway Costigan. And Jack? Or Mase? Or
both?"
     "Both," Kinnison decided, "and anybody else they can use."
     "I'll get them at it." Samms sent out thoughts. "And now, I wonder what that
daughter of mine is doing? I'm a little worried about her, Rod. She's too cocky for her
own good or strength. Some of these days she's going to bite off more than she can
chew, if she hasn't already. The more we learn about Morgan, the less I like the idea of
her working on Herkimer Herkimer Third. I've told her so, a dozen times, and why, but of
course it didn't do any good."
     "It wouldn't. The only way to develop teeth is to bite with 'em. You had to. So did
I. Our kids have got to, too. We lived through it. So will they. As for Herky the Third . . ."
He thought for moments, then went on: "Check. But she's done a job so far that nobody
else could do. In spite of that fact, if it wasn't for our Lenses I'd say to pull her, if you
have to heave the insubordinate young jade into the brig. But with the Lenses, and the
way you watch her . . . to say nothing of Mase Northrop, and he's a lot of man . . . I can't
see her getting in either very bad or very deep. Can you?"
     "No, I can't." Samms admitted, but the thoughtful frown did not leave his face. He
Lensed her: finding, as he had supposed, that she was at a party; dancing, as he had
feared, with Senator Morgan's Number One Secretary.
     "Hi, Dad!" she greeted him gaily, with no slightest change in the expression of the
face turned so engagingly to her partner's. "I have the honor of reporting that all
instruments are still dead-centering the green."

"And have you, by any chance, been paying any attention to what I have been telling
your"
     "Oh, lots," she assured him. "I've collected reams of data. He could be almost as
much of a menace as he thinks he is, in some cases, but I haven't begun to slip yet As I
have told you all along, this is just a game, and we're both playing it strictly according to
the rules."
     "That's good. Keep it that way, my dear." Samms signed off and his daughter
returned her full attention -- never noticeably absent -- to the handsome secretary.
     The evening wore on. Miss Samms danced every dance; occasionally with one or
another of the notables present, but usually with Herkimer Herkimer Third.
     "A drink?" he asked. "A small, cold one?"
     "Not so small, and very cold," she agreed, enthusiastically.
     Glass in hand, Herkimer indicated a nearby doorway. "I just heard that our host
has acquired a very old and very fine bronze -- a Neptune. We should run an eye over it,
don't you think?"
     "By all means," she agreed again.
     But as they passed through the shadowed portal the man's head perked to the
right. "There's something you really ought to see, Jill!" he exclaimed. "Look!"
     She looked. A young woman of her own height and build and with her own
flamboyant hair, identical as to hair-do and as to every fine detail of dress and of
ornamentation, glass in band, was strolling back into the ball-room!
     Jill started to protest, but could not. In the brief moment of inaction the beam of a
snub-nosed P-gun bad played along her spine from hips to neck. She did not fall -- he
had given her a very mild jolt -- but, rage as she would, she could neither struggle nor
scream. And, after the fact, she knew.
     But he couldn't -- couldn't possibly! Nevian paralysis-guns were as outlawed as
was Vee Two gas itself! Nevertheless, he had.
     And on the instant a woman, dressed in crisp and spotless white and carrying a
hooded cloak, appeared -- and Herkimer now wore a beard and heavy, horn rimmed
spectacles. Thus, very shortly, Virgilia Samms found herself, completely helpless and
completely unrecognizable, walking awkwardly out of the house between a businesslike
doctor and a solicitous nurse.
     "Will you need me any more, Doctor Murray?" The woman carefully and expertly
loaded the patient into the rear seat of a car.
     "Thank you, no, Miss Childs." With a sick, cold certainty Jill knew that this
conversation was for the benefit of the doorman and the hackers, and that it would stand
up under any examination. "Mrs. Harman's condition is . . . er . . . well, nothing at all
serious."
     The car moved out into the street and Jill, really frightened for the first time in her
triumphant life, fought down an almost overwhelming wave of panic. The hood had
slipped down over her eyes, blinding her. She could not move a single voluntary muscle.
Nevertheless, she knew that the car traveled a few blocks -- six, she thought -- west on
Bolton Street before turning left.
     Why didn't somebody Lens her? Her father wouldn't, she knew, until tomorrow.
Neither of the Kinnisons would, nor Spud -- they never did except on direct invitation. But
Mase would, before he went to bed -- or would he? It was past his bed-time now, and
she bad been pretty caustic, only last night, because she was doing a particularly
delicate bit of reading. But he would . . . he must!
     "Mase! Mase! MASE!"
     And, eventually, Mase did.
     Deep under The Hill, Roderick Kinnison swore fulminantly at the sheer physical
impossibility of getting out of that furiously radiating mountain in a hurry. At New York
Spaceport, however, Mason Northrop and Jack Kinnison not only could hurry, but did.
     "Where are you, Jill?" Northrop demanded presently. "What kind of a car are you
in?"
     "Quite near Stanhope Circle." In communication with her friends at last, Jill
regained a measure of her usual poise. "Within eight or ten blocks, I'm sure. I'm in a
black Wilford sedan, last year's model. I didn't get a chance to see its license plates."
     '"That helps a lot!" Jack grunted, savagely. "A ten-block radius covers a hell of a
lot of territory, and half the cars is town are black Wilford sedans."
     "Shut up, Jack! Go ahead, Jill -- tell us all you can, and keep on sending us
anything that will help at all."
     "I kept the right and left turns and distances straight for quite a while -- about
twenty blocks -- that's how I know it was Stanhope Circle. I don't know how many times
he went around the circle, though, or which way he went when he left it. After leaving the
Circle, the traffic was very light, and here there doesn't seem to be any traffic at all. That
brings us up to date. You'll know as well as I do what happens next."
     With Jill, the Lensmen knew that Herkimer drove his car up to the curb and
stopped -- parked without backing up. He got out and hauled the girl's limp body out of
the car, displacing the hood enough to free one eye. Good! Only one other car was
visible; a bright yellow convertible parked across the street, about half a block ahead.
There was a sign -- "NO PARKING ON THIS SIDE 7 TO 10." The building toward which
he was carrying her was more than three stories high, and had a number -- one, four -- if
he would only swing her s little bit more, so that she could see the rest of it -- one four-
seven-nine!
     "Rushton Boulevard, you think, Mase?"
     "Could be. Fourteen seventy nine would be on the downtown-traffic side. Blast!"
     Into the building, where two masked men locked and barred the door behind
them. "And keep it locked!" Herkimer ordered. "You know what to do until I come back
down."
     Into an elevator, and up. Through massive double doors into a room, whose most
conspicuous item of furniture was a heavy steel chair, bolted to the floor. Two masked
men got up and placed themselves behind that chair.
     Jill's strength was coming back fast; but not fast enough. The cloak was removed.
Her ankles were tied firmly, one to each front leg of the chair. Herkimer threw four turns
of rope around her torso and the chair's back, took up every inch of slack, and tied a
workmanlike knot. Then, still without a word, he stood back and lighted a cigarette. The
last trace of paralysis disappeared, but the girl's mad struggles, futile as they were,
were not allowed to continue.
     "Put a double hammerlock on her," Herkimer directed, "but be damned sure not to
break anything at this stage of the game. That comes later."
     Jill, more furiously angry than frightened until now, locked her teeth to keep from
screaming as the pressure went on. She could not bend forward to relieve the pain; she
could not move; she could only grit her teeth and glare. She was beginning to realize,
however, what was actually in store; that Herkimer Herkimer Thud was in fact a monster
whose like she had never known.
     He stepped quietly forward, gathered up a handful of fabric, and heaved. The
strapless and backless garment, in no way designed to withstand such stresses, parted;
squarely across at the upper strand of rope. He puffed his cigarette to a vivid coal -- took
it in his fingers -- there was an audible hiss and a tiny stink of burning flesh as the
glowing ember was extinguished in the clear, clean skin below the girl's left armpit. Jill
flinched then, and shrieked desperately, but her tormentor was viciously unmoved.
     "That was just to settle any doubt as to whether or not I mean business. I'm all
done fooling around with you. I want to know two things. First, everything you know
about the Lens; where it comes from, what it really is, and what it does besides what
your press-agents advertise. Second, what really happened at the Ambassadors' Ball.
Start talking. The faster you talk, the less you'll get hurt."
     "You can't get away with this, Herkimer." Jill tried desperately to pull her shattered
nerves together. "I'll be missed -- traced . . . " She paused, gasping. If she told him that
the Lensmen were in full and continuous communication with her -- and if he believed it --
he would kill her right then. She switched instantly to another track. `"That double isn't
good enough to fool anybody who really knows me."
     "She doesn't have to be." The man grinned venomously. "Nobody who knows you
will get close enough to her to tell the difference. This wasn't done on the spur of the
moment, Jill; it was planned -- minutely. You haven't got the chance of the proverbial
celluloid dog in hell."
     "Jill!" Jack Kinnison's thought stabbed in. "It isn't Rushton û fourteen seventy nine
is a two-story. What other streets. could it be?"
     "I don't know. . ." She was not in very good shape to think.
     "Damnation! Got to get hold of somebody who knows  the streets. Spud, grab a
hacker at the Circle and I'll Lens Parker . . ." Jack's thought snapped off as he tuned to a
local Lensman.
     Jill's heart sank. She was starkly certain now that the Lensmen could not find her
in time.
     "Tighten up a little, Eddie. You, too, Bob."
     "Stop it! Oh, God, STOP IT!" The unbearable agony relaxed a little. She watched
in horrified fascination a second glowing coal approach her bare right side. "Even if I do
talk you'll kill me anyway. You couldn't let me go now."

"Kill you, my pet? Not if you behave yourself. We've got a lot of planets the Patrol never
heard of, and you could keep a man interested for quite a while, if you really tried. And if
you beg hard enough maybe I'll let you try. However, I'd get just as much fun out of killing
you as out of the other, so it's up to you. Not sudden death, of course. Little things, at
first, like we've been doing. A few more touches of warmth here and there -- so . . .
     "Scream as much as you please. I enjoy it, and this room is soundproof. Once
more, boys, about half an inch higher this time . . . up . . . steady . . . down. We'll have
half an hour or so of this stuff" -- Herkimer knew that to the quivering, sensitive, highly
imaginative girl his words would be practically as punishing as the atrocious actualities
themselves -- "then I'll do things to your finger-nails and toe-nails, beginning with burning
slivers of double-base flare powder and working up. Then your eyes -- or no, I'll save
them until last, so you can watch a couple of Venerian dasher-worms work on you, one
on each leg, and a Martian digger on your bare belly."
     Gripping her hair firmly in his left hand, he forced her head back and down; down
almost to her hard-held hands. His right hand, concealing something which he had not
mentioned and which was probably starkly unmentionable, approached her taut-stretched
throat.
     "Talk or not, just as you please." The voice was utterly callous, as chill as the
death she now knew he was so willing to deal. "But listen. If you elect to talk, tell the
truth. You won't lie twice. I'll count to ten. One."
     Jill uttered a gurgling, strangling noise and he lifted her head a trifle.
     "Can you talk now?"
     "Yes."
     "Two."
     Helpless, immobile, scared now to a depth of terror she had never imagined it
possible to feel, Jill fought her wrenched and shaken mind back from insanity's very
edge; managed with a pale tongue to lick bloodless lips. Pops Kinnison always said a
man could die only once, but he didn't know . . . in battle, yes, perhaps . . . but she had
already died a dozen times -- but she'd keep on dying forever before she'd say a word.
But
     "Tell him, Jill!" Northrop's thought beat at her mind. He, her lover, was
unashamedly frantic; as much with sheer rage as with sympathy for her physical and
mental anguish. "For the nineteenth time I say tell him! We've just located you -- Hancock
Avenue -- we'll be there in two minutes!"
     "Yes, Jill, quit being a damned stubborn jackass and tell him!" Jack Kinnison's
thought bit deep; but this time, strangely enough, the girl felt no repugnance at his touch.
There was nothing whatever of the lover; nor of the brother, except of the fraternity of
arms. She belonged. She would come out of this brawl right side up or none of them
would. "Tell the goddam rat the truth!" Jack's thought drove on. "It won't make any
difference -- he won't live long enough to pass it on!"
     "But I can't -- I won't! Jill stormed. "Why, Pops Kinnison would . . : '
     "Not this time I wouldn't, Jill!" Samms' thought tried to come in, too, but the Port
Admiral's vehemence was overwhelming. "No harm -- he's doing this strictly on his own --
if Morgan had had any idea he'd've killed him first. Start talking or I'll spank you to a rosy
blister!"
     They were to laugh, later, at the incongruity of that threat, but it did produce
results.
     "Nine." Herkimer grinned wolfishly, in sadistic anticipation.
     "Stop it -- I'll WE" she screamed. "Stop it -- take that thing away -- I can't stand it
-- I'll tell!" She burst into racking, tearing sobs.
     "Steady." Herkimer put something in his pocket, then slapped her so viciously that
fingers-long marks sprang into red relief upon the chalk-white background of her cheek.
"Don't crack up; I haven't started to work on you yet. What about that Lens?"
     She gulped twice before she could speak. "It comes from û ulp! û Arisia. I haven't
got one myself, so I don't know very much -- ulp! -- about it at first hand, but from what
the boys tell me it must be . . ."

                         *     *     *

Outside the building three black forms arrowed downward. Northrop and young Kinnison
stopped at the sixth level; Costigan went on down to take care of the guards.
     "Bullets, not beams," the Irishman reminded his younger fellows. "We'll have to
clean up the mess without leaving a trace, so don't do any more damage to the property
than you absolutely have to."
     Neither made any reply; they were both too busy. The two thugs standing behind
the steel chair, being armed openly, went first; then Jack put a bullet through Herkimer's
head. But Northrop was not content with that. He slid the pin to "full automatic" and ten
more heavy slugs tore into the falling body before it struck the floor.
     Three quick slashes and the girl was free.
     "Jill!"
     "Mase!"
     Locked in each other's arms, straining together, no bystander would have believed
that this was their first kiss. It was plainly -- yes, quite spectacularly -- evident, however,
that it would not be their last.
     Jack, blushing furiously, picked up the cloak and flung it at the oblivious couple.
     "P-s-s-t! P-s-s-t! Jill! Wrap 'em up!" he whispered, urgently. "All the top brass in
space is coming at full emergency blast -- there'll be scrambled eggs all over the place
any second now -- Mase! Damn your thick, hard skull, snap out of it! He's always
frothing at the mouth about her running around half naked and if he sees her like this --
especially with you -- he'll simply have a litter of lizards! You'll get a million black spots
and seven hundred years in the Mink! That's better -- 'bye now -- I'll see you up at New
York Spaceport."
     Jack Kinnison dashed to the nearest window, threw it open, and dived headlong
out of the building.

     CHAPTER 14

The employment office of any concern with personnel running into the hundreds of
thousands is a busy place indeed, even when its plants are all on Tellus and its working
conditions are as nearly ideal as such things can be made. When that firm's business is
Colonial, however, and its working conditions are only a couple of degrees removed from
slavery, procurement of personnel is a first-magnitude problem; the Personnel
Department, like Alice in Wonderland, must run as fast as it can go in order to stay
where it is. Thus the "Help Wanted" advertisements of Uranium, Incorporated covered
the planet Earth with blandishment and guile; and thus for twelve hours of every day and
for seven days of every week the employment offices of Uranium, Inc. were filled with
men -- mostly the scum of Earth.
     There were, of course, exceptions; one of which strode through the motley group
of waiting men and thrust a card through the "Information" wicket. He was a chunky-
looking individual, appearing shorter than his actual five feet nine because of a hundred
and ninety pounds of weight -- even though every pound was placed exactly where it
would do the most good. He looked -- well, slouchy -- and his mien was sullen.
     "Birkenfeld -- by appointment," he growled through the wicket, in a voice which
could have been pleasantly deep.
     The coolly efficient blonde manipulated plugs. "Mr. George W. Jones, sir, by
appointment . . . Thank you, sir," and Mr. Jones was escorted into Mr. Birkenfeld's
private office.
     "Have a chair, please Mr .... er . . . Jones."
     "So you know?"
     "Yes. It is seldom that a man of your education, training, and demonstrated ability
applies to us for employment of his own initiative, and a very thorough investigation is
indicated."
     "What am I here for, then?" the visitor demanded, truculently. "You could have
turned me down by mail. Everybody else has, since I got out."
     "You are here because we who operate on the frontiers cannot afford to pass
judgment upon a man because of his past, unless that past precludes the probability of a
useful future. Yours does not; and in some cases, such as yours, we are very deeply
interested in the future." The official's eyes drilled deep.
     Conway Costigan had never been in the limelight. On the contrary, he had made
inconspicuousness a passion and an art. Even in such scenes of violence as that which
had occurred at the Ambassadors' Ball he managed to remain unnoticed. His Lens had
never been visible. No one except Lensmen -- and Clio and Jill -- knew that he had one;
and Lensmen -- and Clio and Jill -- did not talk. Although he was calmly certain that this
Birkenfeld was not an ordinary interviewer, he was equally certain that the investigators
of Uranium, Inc. had found out exactly and only what the Patrol had wanted them to find.
     "So?" Jones' bearing altered subtly, and not because of the penetrant eyes.
"That's all I want -- a chance. I'll start at the bottom, as far down as you say."
     "We advertise, and truthfully, that opportunity on Eridan is unlimited." Birkenfeld
chose his words with care. "In your case, opportunity will be either absolutely unlimited or
zero, depending entirely upon yourself."
     "I see." Dumbness had not been included in the fictitious Mr. Jones' background.
"You don't need to draw a blue-print."
     "You'll do, I think." The interviewer nodded in approval. "Nevertheless, I must
make our position entirely clear. If the slip was -- shall we say accidental? -- you will go
far with us. If you try to play false, you will not last long and you will not be missed."
     "Fair enough."
     "Your willingness to start at the bottom is commendable, and it is a fact that those
who come up through the ranks make the best executives; in our line at least. Just how
far down are you willing to start?"
     "How low do you go?"
     "A mocker, I think would be low enough; and, from your build, and obvious
physical strength, the logical job."
     "Mocker?"
     One who skoufers ore in the mine. Nor can we make any exception in your case
as to the routines of induction and transportation."
     "Of course not."
     "Take this slip to Mr. Calkins, in Room 6217. He will run you through the mill."
     And that night, in an obscure boarding-house, Mr. George Washington Jones,
after a meticulous Service Special survey in every direction, reached a large and
somewhat grimy hand into a screened receptacle in his battered suitcase and touched a
Lens.
     "Clio?" The lovely mother of their wonderful children appeared in his mind. "Made
it, sweetheart, no suspicion at all. No more Lensing for a while -- not too long, I hope û
so . . . so-long, Clio."
     "Take it easy, Spud darling, and be careful." Her tone was light, but she could not
conceal a stark background of fear. "Oh, I wish I could go, too!"
     "I wish you could, Tootie." The linked minds flashed back to what the two had
done together in the red opacity of Nevian murk; on Nevia's mighty, watery globe -- but
that kind of thinking would not do. "But the boys will keep in touch with me and keep you
posted. And besides, you know how hard it is to get a baby-sitter!"

                         *     *     *

It is strange that the fundamental operations of working metalliferous veins have changed
so little throughout the ages. Or is it? Ores came into being with the crusts of the
planets; they change appreciably only with the passage of geologic time. Ancient mines,
of course, .could not go down very deep or follow a seam very far; there was too much
water and too little air. The steam engine helped, in degree if not in kind, by removing
water and supplying air. Tools improved from the simple metal bar through pick and
shovel and candle, through drill and hammer and low explosive and acetylene, through
Sullivan slugger and high explosive and electrics, through skoufer and rotary and burley
and sourceless glow, to the complex gadgetry of today -- but what, fundamentally, is the
difference? Men still crawl, snake-like, to where the metal is. Men still, by dint of sheer
brawn, jackass the precious stuff out to where our vaunted automatics can get hold of it.
And men still die, in horribly unknown fashions and in callously recorded numbers, in the
mines which supply the stuff upon which our vaunted culture rests.
     But to resume the thread of narrative, George Washington Jones went to Eridan
as a common laborer; a mucker. He floated down beside the skip -- a "skip" is a mine
elevator  -- some four thousand eight hundred feet. He rode an ore-car a horizontal
distance of approximately eight miles to the brilliantly-illuminated cavern which was the
Station of the Twelfth and lowest level. He was assigned to the bunk in which he would
sleep for the next fifteen nights: "Fifteen down and three up," ran the standard
underground contract.
     He walked four hundred yards, yelled "Nothing Down!" and inched his way up a
rise -- in many places scarcely wider than his shoulders -- to the stope some three
hundred feet above. He reported to the miner who was to be his immediate boss and
bent his back to the skoufer -- which, while not resembling a shovel at all closely, still
meant hard physical labor. He already knew ore -- the glossy, sub-metallic, pitchy black
luster of uraninite or pitchblende; the yellows of autunite and carnotite; the variant and
confusing greens of tobernite. No values went from Jones' skoufer into the heavily-
timbered, steel-braced waste-pockets of the stope; very little base rock went down the
rise.
     He became accustomed to the work; got used to breathing the peculiarly lifeless,
dry, oily compressed air. And when, after a few days, his stentorian "Nothing-Down!"
called forth a "Nothing but a little fine stuff!" and a handful of grit and pebbles, he knew
that he had been accepted into the undefined, unwritten, and unofficial, yet nevertheless
intensely actual, fellowship of hard-rock men. He belonged.
     He knew that he must abandon his policy of invisibility; and, after several days of
thought, he decided how he would do it. Hence, upon the first day of his "up" period, he
joined his fellows in their descent upon one of the rawest, noisiest dives of Danapolis.
The men were met, of course, .by a bevy of giggling, shrieking, garishly painted and
strongly perfumed girls -- and at this point young Jones' behavior became exceedingly
unorthodox.
     "Buy me a drink, mister? And a dance, huh?"
     "On your way, sister." He brushed the importunate wench aside. "I get enough
exercise underground, an' you aint got a thing I want"
     Apparently unaware that the girl was exchanging meaningful glances with a couple
of husky characters labeled "BOUNCER" in bill-poster type, the atypical mucker strode
up to the long and ornate bar.
     "Gimme a bottle of pineapple pop," he ordered bruskly, "an' a package of
Tellurian cigarettes -- Sunshines."
     "P-p-pine . . . ?" The surprised bartender did not finish the word.
     The bouncers were fast, but Costigan was faster. A hard knee took one in the
solar plexus; a hard elbow took the other so savagely under the chin as to all but break
his neck. A bartender started to swing a bung-starter, and found himself flying through
the air toward a table. Men, table, and drinks crashed to the floor.
     "I pick my own company an' I drink what I damn please," Jones announced,
grittily. "Them lunkers ain't hurt none, to speak of . . ." His hard eyes swept the room
malevolently, "but I ain't in no gentle mood an' the next jaspers that tackle me will wind up
in the repair shop, or maybe in the morgue. See?"
     This of course was much too much; a dozen embattled roughnecks leaped to mop
up on the misguided wight who had so impugned the manhood of all Eridan. Then, while
six or seven bartenders blew frantic blasts upon police whistles, there was a flurry of
action too fast to be resolved into consecutive events by the eye. Conway Costigan, one
of the fastest men with hands and feet the Patrol has ever known, was trying to keep
himself alive; and he succeeded.
     "What the hell, goes on here?" a chorus of raucously authoritative voices yelled,
and sixteen policemen -- John Law did not travel singly in that district, but in platoons û
swinging clubs and saps, finally hauled George Washington Jones out from the bottom of
the pile. He had sundry abrasions and not a few contusions, but no bones were broken
and his skin was practically whole.
     And since his version of the affair was not only inadequate, but also differed in
important particulars from those of several non-participating witnesses, he spent the rest
of his holiday in jail; a development with which he was quite content.
     The work -- and time -- went on. He became in rapid succession a head mucker,
a miner's pimp (which short and rugged Anglo-Saxon word means simply "helper" in
underground parlance) a miner, a top-miner, and then -- along step up the ladder! -- a
shift-boss.
     And then disaster struck; suddenly, paralyzingly, as mine disasters do. Loud-
speakers blared briefly -- "Explosion! Cavein! Flood! Fire! Gas! Radiation! Damp!" -- and
expired. Shortcircuits; there was no way of telling which, if any, of those dire warnings
were true.
     The power failed, and the lights. The hiss of air from valves, a noise which by its
constant and unvarying and universal presence soon becomes unheard, became
noticeable because of its diminution in volume and tone. And then, seconds later, a
jarring, shuddering rumble was felt and heard, accompanied by the snapping of shattered
timbers and the sharper, utterly unforgettable shriek of rending and riven steel. And the
men, as men do under such conditions, went wild; yelling, swearing, leaping toward
where, in the rayless dark, each thought the rise to be.
     It took a couple of seconds for the shift-boss to break out and hook up his
emergency battery-lamp; and three or four more seconds, and by dint of fists, feet, and
a two-foot length of air-hose, to restore any degree of order. Four men were dead; but
that wasn't too bad -- considering.
     "Up there! Under the hanging wall!" he ordered, sharply. "That won't fall -- unless
the whole mountain slips. Now, how many of you jaspers have got your emergency kits
on you? Twelve--out of twenty-six -- what brains! Put on your masks. You without 'em
can stay up here -- you'll be safe for a while -- I hope."

Then, presently: "There, that's all for now. I guess." He flashed his light downward. The
massive steel members no longer writhed; the crushed and tortured timbers were still.
     "That rise may be open, it goes through solid rock, not waste. I'll see. Wright,
you're all in one piece, aren't you?"
     "I guess so -- yes."
     "Take charge up here. I'll go down to the drift. If the rise is open I'll give you a
flash. Send the ones with masks down, one at a time. Take a jolly-bar and bash the
brains out of anybody who gets panicky again."
     Jones was not as brave as he sounded: mine disasters carry a terror which is
uniquely and peculiarly poignant. Nevertheless he went down the rise, found it open, and
signaled. Then, after issuing brief orders, he led the way along the dark and silent drift
toward the Station; wondering profanely why the people on duty there had not done
something with the wealth of emergency equipment always ready there. The party found
some cave-ins, but nothing they could not dig through.
     The Station was also silent and dark. Jones, flashing his head-lamp upon the
emergency panel, smashed the glass, wrenched the door open, and pushed buttons.
Lights flashed on. Warning signals flared, bellowed and rang. The rotary airpump began
again its normal subdued, whickering whirr. But the water-pump! Shuddering, clanking,
groaning, it was threatening to go out any second -- but there wasn't a thing in the world
Jones could do about it -- yet.
     The Station itself, so buttressed and pillared with alloy steel as to be little more
compressible than an equal volume of solid rock, was unharmed; but in it nothing lived.
Four men and a woman -- the nurse -- were stiffly motionless at their posts; apparently
the leads to the Station had been blasted in such fashion that no warning whatever had
been given. And smoke, billowing inward from the main tunnel, was growing thicker by
the minute. Jones punched another button; a foot-thick barrier of asbestos, tungsten, and
vitrified refractory slid smoothly across the tunnel's opening. He considered briefly,
pityingly, those who might be outside, but felt no urge to explore. If any lived, there were
buttons on the other side of the fire-door.
     The eddying smoke disappeared, the flaring lights winked out, air-horns and bells
relapsed into silence. The shiftboss, now apparently the Superintendent of the whole
Twelfth Level, removed his mask, found the Station walkie-talkie, and snapped a switch.
He spoke, listened, spoke again then called a list of names -- none of which brought any
response.
     "Wright, and you five others," picking out miners who could be depended upon to
keep their heads, "take these guns. Shoot if you have to, but not unless you have to.
Have the muckers clear the drift, just enough to get through. You'll find a shift-boss, with
a crew of nineteen, up in Stope Sixty. Their rise is blocked. They've got light and power
again now, and good air, and they're working on it, but opening the rise from the top is a
damned slow job. Wright, you throw a chippie into it from the bottom. You others, work
back along the drift, clear to the last glory hole. Be sure that all the rises are open --
check all the stopes and glory holestell everybody you find alive to report to me here . . ."
     "Aw, what good!" a man shrieked. "We're all goners anyway -- I want water an' . .
."
     "Shut up, fool!" There was a sound as of fist meeting flesh, the shriek was stilled.
"Plenty of water-tanks full of the stuff." A grizzled miner turned to the self-appointed boss
and twitched his head toward the laboring pump. "Too damn much water too soon, huh?"
     "I wouldn't wonder -- but get busy!"
     As his now orderly and purposeful men disappeared,
     Jones picked up his microphone and changed the setting of a dial.
     "On top, somebody," he said crisply. "On top. . :'
     "Oh, there's somebody alive down in Twelve, after all!" a girl's voice screamed in
his ear. "Mr. Clancy! Mr. Edwards!"
     "To hell with Clancy, and Edwards, too," Jones barked "Gimme the Chief Engineer
and the Head Surveyor, and gimme 'em fast."
     "Clancy speaking, Station Twelve." If Works Manager Clancy had heard that
pointed remark, and he must have, he ignored it. "Stanley and Emerson will be here in a
moment. In the meantime, who's calling? I don't recognize your voice, and it's been so
long . . "
     "Jones. Shift-boss, Stope Fifty Nine. I had a little trouble getting here to the
Station."
     "What? Where's Pennoyer? And Riley? And ... ?
     "Dead. Everybody. Gas or damp. No warning."
     "Not enough to turn on anything -- not even the purifiers?"
     "Nothing."
     "Where were you?"
     "Up in the stope."
     "Good God!" That news, to Clancy, was informative enough.
     "But to hell with all that. What happened, and where?"
     "A skip-load, and then a magazine, of high explosive, right at Station Seven -- it's
right at the main shaft, you know." Jones did not know, since he had never been in that
part of the mine, but he could see the picture. "Main shaft filled up to above Seven, and
both emergency shafts blocked. Number One at Six, Number Two at Seven -- must have
been a fault  -- But here's Chief Engineer Stanley." The works manager, not too
unwillingly, relinquished the microphone.
     A miner came running up and Jones covered his mouthpiece. "How about the glory
holes?"
     "Plugged solid, all four of 'em -- by the vibro, clear up to Eleven."
     "Thanks." Then, as soon as Stanley's voice came on:
     "What I want to know is, why is this damned water-pump overloading? What's the
circuit?"
     "You must be . . . yes, you are pumping against too much head. Five levels above
you are dead, you know, so . . : '
     "Dead? Can't you raise anybody?"
     "Not yet. So you're pumping through dead boosters on Eleven and Ten and so on
up, and when your overload -- relief valve opens . . . "
     "Relief valve!" Jones almost screamed. "Can I dog the damn thing down?"
     "No, it's internal."
     "Christ, what a design -- I could eat a handful of iron filings and puke a better
emergency pump than that!"
     "When it opens," Stanley went stolidly on, "the water will go through the by-pass
back into the sump. So you'd better rod out one of the glory holes and . . ."
     "Get conscious, fat-head!" Jones blazed. "What would we use for time? Get off
the air -- gimme Emerson!"
     "Emerson speaking."
     "Got your maps?"
     "Yes."
     "We got to run a sag up to Eleven -- fast -- or drown. Can you give me the
shortest possible distance?"
     "Can do." The Head Surveyor snapped orders. "We'll have it for you in a minute.
Thank God there was somebody down there with a brain."
     "It doesn't take super-human intelligence to push buttons."
     "You'd be surprised. Your point on glory holes was very well taken -- you won't
have much time after the pump quits. When the water reaches the Station . . ."
     "Curtains. And it's all done now -- running free and easy recirculating. Hurry that
dope!"
     "Here it is now. Start at the highest point of Stope Fifty Nine. Repeat."
     "Stope Fifty-Nine." Jones waved a furious band as he shouted the words; the
tight-packed miners turned and ran. The shift-boss followed them, carrying the walkie-
talkie, aiming an exasperated kick of pure frustration at the merrily humming water pump
as be passed it.
     "Thirty two degrees from the vertical -- anywhere between thirty and thirty five."
     "Thirty to thirty five off vertical."
     "Direction -- got a compass?"
     "Yes."
     "Set the blue on zero. Course two hundred seventy five degrees."
     "Blue on zero. Course two seven five."
     "Dex sixty nine point two zero feet. That'll put you into Eleven's class yard -- so big
you can't miss it."
     "Distance sixty nine point two -- that all? Fine! Maybe we'll make it, after all.
They're sinking a shaft, of course. From where?"
     "About four miles in on Six. It'll take time."
     "If we can get up into Eleven we'll have all the time on the clock -- it'll take a week
or more to flood Twelve's slopes. But this sag is sure as hell going to be touch and go.
And say, from the throw of the pump and the volume of the sump, will you give me the
best estimate you can of how much time we've got? I want at least an hour, but I'm
afraid I won't have it"
     "Yes. I'll call you back."
     The shift-boss elbowed his way through the throng of men and, dragging the radio
behind him, wriggled and floated up the rise.
     "Wright!" he bellowed, the echoes resounding deafeningly all up and down the
narrow tube. "You up there ahead of me?"
     "Yeah!" that worthy bellowed back.
     "More men left than I thought -- how many -- half of 'em?"
     "Just about."
     "Good. Sort out the ones you got up there by trades" Then, when he had emerged
into the now brilliantly illuminated slope, "Where are the timber-pimps?"
     "Over there."
     "Rustle timbers. Whatever you can find and wherever you find it, grab it and bring
it up here. Get some twelve-inch steel, too, six feet long. Timbermen, grab that stuff off
of the face and start your staging right here. You muckers, rig a couple of skoufers to
throw muck to bury the base and checkerwork up to the hanging wall. Doze a sluice --
way down into that waste pocket there, so we won't clog ourselves up. Work fast,
fellows, but make it solid -- you know the load it'll have to carry and what will happen if it
gives."
     They knew. They knew what they had to do and did it; furiously, but with care and
precision.
     "How wide a sag you figurin' on, Supe?" the boss timber. man asked. "Eight foot
checkerwork to the hangin', anyway, huh?"
     "Yes. I'll let you know in a minute."
     The surveyor came in. "Forty one minutes is my best guess."
     "From when?"
     "From the time the pump failed."

"'That was four minutes ago -- nearer five. And five more before we can start cutting.
Forty one less ten is thirty one. Thirty one into sixty nine point two goes . . ."
     "Two point two three feet per minute, my slip-stick says."
     "Thanks. Wright, what would you Say is the. biggest sag we can cut in this kind of
rock at two and a quarter feet a minute?"
     "Um . . . m . . . m". The miner scratched his whiskery chin. 'That's a tough one,
boss. You'll hafta figure damn close to a hundred pounds of air to the foot on plain cuttin'
-- that's two hundred and a quarter. But without a burley to pimp for 'er, a rotary can't
take that kind of air -- she'll foul herself to a standstill before she cuts a foot. An' with a
burley riggin' she's got to make damn near a double cut -- seven foot inside figger -- so
any way you look at it you ain't goin' to cut no two foot to the minute."
     "I was hoping you wouldn't check my figures, but you do. So we'll cut five feet.
Saw your timbers accordingly. We'll hold that burley by hand."
     Wright shook his head dubiously. "We don't want to die down here any more than
you do, boss, so we'll do our damndest -- but how in hell do you figure you can hold her
to her work?"
     "Rig a yoke. Cut a stretcher up for canvas and padding. It'll pound, but a man can
stand almost anything, in short enough shifts, if he's got to or die."
     And for a time -- two minutes, to be exact, during which the rotary chewed up and
spat out a plug of rock over five feet deep -- things went very well indeed. Two men,
instead of the usual three, could run the rotary; that is, they could tend the complicated
pneumatic walking jacks which not only oscillated the cutting demon in a geometrical
path, but also rammed it against the face with a steadily held and enormous pressure,
even while climbing almost vertically upward under a burden of over twenty thousand
pounds.
     An armored hand waved a signal -- voice was utterly useless -- up! A valve was
flipped; a huge, flat, steel foot arose; a timber slid into place, creaking and groaning as
that big flat foot smashed down. Up-again! Up-a third time! Eighteen seconds -- less than
one-third of a minute -- ten inches gained!
     And, while it was not easy, two men could hold the burley -- in one-minute shifts.
As has been intimated, this machine "pimped" for the rotary. It waited on it, ministering to
its every need with a singleness of purpose impossible to tray except robotic devotion. It
picked the rotary's teeth, it freed its linkages, it deloused its ports, it cleared its spillways
of compacted debris, it even -- and this is a feat starkly unbelievable to anyone who does
not know the hardness of neocarballoy and the tensile strength of ultra-special steels û it
even changed, while is full operation, the rotary's diamond tipped cutters.
     Both burley and rotary were extremely efficient, but neither was either quiet or
gentle. In their quietest moments they shrieked and groaned and yelled, producing a
volume of sound in which nothing softer than a cannon-shot could have been heard. But
when, in changing the rotary's cutting teeth, the burley's "fingers" were driven into and
through the solid rock -- a matter of merest routine to both machines -- the resultant
blasts of sound cannot even be imagined, to say nothing of being described.
     And always both machines spewed out torrents of rock, in sizes ranging from
impalpable dust up to chunks as big as a fist.
     As the sag lengthened and the checkerwork grew higher, the work began to slow
down: They began to lose the time they had gained. There were plenty of men, but in
that narrow bore there simply was not room for enough men to work. Even through that
storm of dust and hurtling rock the timbermen could get their blocking up there, but they
could not place it fast enough -- there were too many other men in the way. One of them
had to get out. Since one man could not possibly run the rotary, one man would have to
hold the burley.
     They tried it, one after another. No soap. It hammered them fiat. The rotary,
fouled in every tooth and channel and vent under the terrific thrust of two hundred thirty
pounds of air, merely gnawed and slid. The timbermen now had room -- but nothing to
do. And Jones, who had been biting at his mustache and ignoring the frantic walkie-talkie
for minutes, stared grimly at watch and tape. Three minutes left, and over eight feet to
go.
     "Gimme that armor!" he rasped, and climbed the blocks. "Open the air wide open
-- give 'er the whole two-fiftyl Get down, Mac -- I'll take it the rest of the way!"
     He put his shoulders to the improvised yoke, braced his feet, and heaved. The
burley, screaming and yelling and clamoring, went joyously to work -- both ways -- God,
what punishment) The rotary, free and clear, chewed rock more viciously than ever. An
armored hand smote his leg. Lift) He lifted that foot, set it down two inches higher. The
other one. Four inches. Six. One foot. Two. Three. Lord of the ancients! Was this lifetime
of agony only one minute? Or wasn't he holding her -- had the damn thing stopped
cutting? No, it was still cutting -- the rocks were banging against and bouncing off of his
helmet as viciously and as numerously as ever; he could sense, rather than feel, the
furious fashion in which the relays of timbermen were laboring to keep those high-
stepping jacks in motion.
     No, it had been only one minute. Twice that long yet to go. God! Nothing could be
that brutal -- a bull elephant couldn't take it -- but by all the gods of space and all the
devils in hell, he'd stay with it until that sag broke through. And grimly, doggedly, toward
the end nine-tenths unconsciously, Lensman Conway Costigan stayed with it.
     And in the stope so far below, a new and highly authoritative voice blared from the
speaker.
     "Jones! God damn it, Jones, answer me! If Jones isn't there, somebody else
answer me -- anybody!"
     "Yes, sir?" Wright was afraid to answer that peremptory call, but more afraid not
to.

"Jones? This is Clancy."
     "No, sir. Not Jones. Wright, sir -- top miner."
     "Where's Jones?"
     "Up in the sag, sir. He's holding the burley -- alone."
     "Alone! Hell's purple fires! Tell him to -- how many men has he got on the rotary?"
     "Two, sir. That's all they's room for."
     "Tell him to quit it -- put somebody else on it -- I won't have him killed, damn it!"
     "He's the only one strong enough to hold it, sir, but I'll send up word." Word went
up via sign language, and came back down. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but he says to tell
you to go to hell, sir. He won't have no time for chit-chat, he says, until this goddam sag
is through or the juice goes off, sir."
     A blast of profanity erupted from the speaker, of such violence that the thoroughly
scared Wright threw the walkie-talkie down the waste-chute, and in the same instant the
rotary crashed through.
     Dazed, groggy, barely conscious from his terrific effort, Jones stared owlishly
through the heavy, steel-braced lenses of his helmet while the timbermen set a few more
courses of wood and the rotary walked itself and the clinging burley up and out of the
hole. He climbed stify out, and as he stared at the pillar of light flaring upward from the
sag, his gorge began to rise.
     "Wha's the idea of that damn surveyor lying to us like that?" he babbled. "We had
oodles an' oodles of time û didn't have to kill ourselves û damn water ain't got there yet -
- wha's the big . . " He wobbled weakly, and took one short step, and the lights went out.
The surveyor's estimate had been impossibly, accidentally close. They had had a little
extra time; but it was measured very easily in seconds.
     And Jones, logical to the end in a queerly addled way, stood in the almost
palpable darkness, and wobbled, and thought. If a man couldn't see anything with his
eyes wide open, he was either blind or unconscious. He wasn't blind, therefore he must
be unconscious and not know it. He sighed, wearily and gratefully, and collapsed.
     Battery lights were soon reconnected, and everybody knew that they had holed
through. There was no more panic. And, even before the shift-boss had recovered full
consciousness, he was walking down the drift toward Station Eleven.
     There is no need to enlarge upon the rest of that grim and grisly affair. Level after
level was activated; and, since working upward in mines is vastly faster than working
downward, the two parties met on the Eighth Level. Half of the men who would otherwise
have died were saved, and -- much more important from the viewpoint of Uranium, Inc. --
the deeper and richer half of the biggest and richest uranium mine in existence, instead of
being out of production for a year or more, would be back in full operation in a couple of
weeks.
     And George Washington Jones, still a trifle shaky from his ordeal, was called into
the front office. But before he arrived:
     "I'm going to make him Assistant Works Manager," Clancy announced.
     "I think not."
     "But listen, Mr. Isaacson -- please! How do you expect me to build up a staff if
you snatch every good man I find away from me?"
     "You didn't find him. Birkenfeld did. He was here only on a test. He is going into
Department Q."
     Clancy, who had opened his mouth to continue his protests, shut it wordlessly. He
knew that department Q was
DEPARTMENT Q.

     CHAPTER 15

Costigan was not surprised to see the man he had known as Birkenfeld in Uranium's
ornate conference room. He had not expected, however, to see Isaacson. He knew, of
course, that Spaceways owned Uranium, Inc., and the planet Eridan, lock, stock, and
barrel; but it never entered his modest mind that his case would be of sufficient
importance to warrant the personal attention of the Big Noise himself. Hence the sight of
that suave and unrevealing face gave the putative Jones a more than temporary qualm.
Isaacson was top-bracket stuff, 'way out of his class. Virgil Samms ought to be taking
this assignment, but since he wasn't û
     But instead of being an inquisition, the meeting was friendly and informal front the
start. They complimented him upon the soundness of his judgment and the accuracy of
his decisions. They thanked him, both with words and with a considerable sum of
expendable credits. They encouraged him to talk about himself, but there was nothing
whatever of the star-chamber or of cross-examination. The last question was
representative of the whole conference.
     "One other thing, Jones, has me slightly baffled," Isaacson said, with a really
winning smile. "Since you do not drink, and since you were not in search of feminine . . .
er . . . companionship, just why did you go down to Roaring Jack's dive?"
     "Two reasons," Jones said, with a somewhat shamefaced grin. "The minor one
isn't easy to explain, but . . . well, I hadn't been having an exactly easy time of it on Earth
. . , you all know about that, I suppose?"
     They knew.
     "Well, I was taking a very dim view of things in general, and a good fight would
get it out of my system. It always does."
     "I see. And the major reason?"
     "I knew, of course, that I was on probation. I would have to get promoted, and
fast, or stay sunk forever. To get promoted fast, a man can either be enough of a boot-
licker
     to be pulled up from on high, or he can be shoved up by the men he is working
with. The best way to get a crowd of hard-rock men to like you is to lick a few of 'em--off
hours, of course, and according to Hoyle -- and the more of 'em you can lick at once, the
better. I'm pretty good at rough-and-tumble brawling, so I gambled that the cops would
step in before I got banged up too much. I won."
     "I see," Isaacson said again, in an entirely different tone. He did see, now. "The
first technique is so universally used that the possibility of the second did not occur to
me. Nice work -- very nice." He turned to the other members of the Board. "This, I
believe, concludes the business of the meeting?"
     For some reason or other Isaacson nodded slightly as he asked the question; and
one by one, as though in concurrence, the others nodded in reply. The meeting broke up.
Outside the door, however, the magnate did not go about his own business nor send
Jones about his. Instead:
     "I would like to show you, if I may, the above-ground part of our Works?"
     "My time is yours, sir. I am interested."
     It is unnecessary here to go into the details of a Civilization's greatest uranium
operation; the storage bins, the grinders, the Wilfley tables and slime tanks, the flotation
sluices, the roasters and reducers, the processes of solution and crystallization and
recrystallization, of final oxidation and reduction. Suffice it to say that Isaacson showed
Jones the whole immensity of Uranium Works Number One. The trip ended on the top
floor of the towering Administration Building, in a heavily-screened room containing a
desk, a couple of chairs, and a tremendously massive safe.
     "Smoke up." Isaacson indicated a package of Jones' favorite -brand of cigarettes
and lighted a cigar. "You knew that you ;were under test, I wonder, though, if you knew
how much of it was testing?"
     "All of it." Jones grinned. "Except for the big blow, of course."
     "Of course."
     "There were too many possibilities, of too many different kinds, too pat. I might
warn you, though -- I could have got way clear with that half-million."
     "The possibility existed." Surprisingly, Isaacson did not ,'hell him that the trap was
more subtle than it had appeared to be. "It was, however, worth the risk. Why didn't
you?"
"Because I figure on making more than that, a little later, and I might live longer to spend
it."
     "Sound thinking, my boy -- really sound. Now -- you noticed, of course, the vote at
the end of the meeting?"
     Jones had noticed it; and, although he did not say so, he had been wondering
about it ever since. The older man strolled over to the safe and opened it, revealing a
single, startlingly small package.
     "You passed, unanimously; you are now learning what you have to know. Not that
we trust you unreservedly. You will be watched for a long time, and before you can make
one false step, you will die."
     "'That would seem to be good business, sir."
     "Glad you look at it that way -- we thought you would. You saw the Works. Quite
an operation, don't you think?"
     "Immense, sir. The biggest thing I ever saw."
     "What would you say, then, to the idea of this office being our real headquarters,
of that little package there being our real business?" He swung the safe door shut, spun
the knob.
     "It would have been highly surprising a couple of hours ago." Costigan could not
afford to appear stupid, nor to possess too much knowledge. He had to steer an
extremely difficult middle course. "After the climax of this build-up, though, it wouldn't
seem at all impossible. Or that there were wheels -- plenty of 'em! -- within wheels."
     "Smart!" Isaacson applauded. "And what would you think might be in that
package? This room is ray-proof."
     "Against anything the Galactic Patrol can swing?"
     "Positively"
     "Well, then, it might be something beginning with the letter" he flicked two fingers,
almost invisibly fast, into a T and went on without a break "M, as in morphine."
     "Your caution and restraint are commendable. If I had any remaining doubt as to
your ability, it is gone." He paused, frowning. As belief in ability increased, that in
sincerity lessened. This doubt, this questioning, existed every time a new executive was
initiated into the mysteries of Department Q. The Board's judgment was good. They had
slipped only twice, and those two errors had been corrected easily enough. The fellow
had been warned once; that was enough. He took the plunge. "You will work with the
Assistant Works Manager here until you understand the duties of the position. You will be
transferred to Tellus as Assistant Works Manager there. Your principal duties will,
however, be concerned with Department Q -- which you will head up one day if you
make good. And, just incidentally, when you go to Tellus, a package like that one in the
safe will go with you."
     "Oh . . . I see. I'll make good, sir." Jones let Isaacson see his jaw-muscles tighten
in resolve. "It may take a little time for me to learn my way around, sir, but I'll learn it."
     "I'm sure you will. And now, to go into greater detail . . :'

                         *     *     *

Virgil Samms had to be sure of his facts. More than that, he had to be able to prove
them; not merely to the satisfaction of a law-enforcement officer, but beyond any
reasonable doubt of the hardest-headed member of a cynical and skeptical jury.
Wherefore Jack Kinnison and Mase Northrop took up the thionite trail at the exact point
where, each trip, George Olmstead had had to abandon it; in the atmosphere of
Cavenda. And fortunately, not too much preparation was required.
     Cavenda was, as has been intimated, a primitive world. Its native people,
humanoid in type, had developed a culture approximating in some respects that of the
North American Indian at about the time of Columbus, in others that of the ancient
Nomads of Araby. Thus a couple of wandering natives, unrecognizable under their dirty
stormproof blankets and their scarcely, thinner layers of grease and grime, watched
impassively, incuriously, while a box floated pendant from its parachute from sky to
ground. Mounted upon their uncouth steeds, they followed that box when it was hauled to
the white man's village. Unlike many of the other natives, these two did not shuffle into
that village, to lean silently against a rock or a wall awaiting their turns to exchange a few
hours of simple labor for a container of a new and highly potent beverage. They did,
however, keep themselves constantly and minutely informed as to everything these
strange, devil-ridden white men did. One of these pseudo-natives wandered off into the
wilderness two or three days before the huge thing-which-flies-without-wings left ground;
the other immediately afterward.
     Thus the departure of the space-ship from Cavenda was recorded, as was its
arrival at Eridan. It had been extremely difficult for the Patrol's engineers to devise ways
and means of tracing that ship from departure to arrival without exciting suspicion, but it
had not proved impossible.

And Jack Kinnison, lounging idly and elegantly in the concourse of Danopolis -Spaceport,
seethed imperceptibly.
     Having swallowed a tiny Service Special capsule that morning, he knew that he
had been under continuous spy-ray inspection for over two hours. He had not given
himself away  --  practically everybody screened their inside coat pockets and hip
pockets, and the cat-whisker lead from Lens to leg simply could not be seen -- but for all
the good they were doing him his ultra-instruments might just as well have been back on
Tellus.
     "Mase!" he sent, with no change whatever in the vapid expression then on his
face. "I'm still covered. Are you?"
     "Covered!" the answering thought was a snort. "They're covering me like water
covers a submarine!"
     "Keep tuned. I'll call Spud. Spud!"
     "Come in, Jack." Conway Costigan, alone now in the sanctum of Department Q,
did not seem to be busy, but he was.
     "That red herring they told us to drag across the trail was too damned red. They
must be touchier than fulminate to spy-work on their armed forces -- neither Mase nor I
can do a lick of work. Anybody else covered?"
     "No. All clear."
     "Good. Tell them the zwilnik blockers took us out."
     "I'll do that. Distance only, or is somebody on your tatty?"
     "Somebody; and I mean some body. A slick chick with a classy chassis; a blonde,
with great, big come-hither eyes. Too good to be true; especially the falsies. Wiring, my
friend û and I haven't been able to get a close look, but I wouldn't wonder if her nostrils
had a skillionth of a whillimeter too much expansion. I want a spy-ray op -- is it safe to
use Fred?" Kinnison referred to the grizzled engineer now puttering about in a certain
space-ship; not the one in which he and Northrop had come to Eridan.
     "Definitely not. I can do it myself and still stay very much in character . . . No, I
don't know her. Not surprising, of course, since the policy here is never to let the right
hand know what the left is doing. How about you, Mase? Have you got a little girl-friend,
too?"
     "Yea, verily, brother; but not little. More my size." Northrop pointed out a tall, trim
brunette, strolling along with the effortless, consciously unconscious poise of the
professional model.
     "Hm . . . m . . . m. I don't know her, either," Costigan reported, "but both of them
are wearing four-inch spy-ray blocks and are probably wired up like Christmas trees. By
inference, P-gun proof. I can't penetrate, of course, but maybe I can get a viewpoint . . .
     You're right, Jack. Nostrils plugged. Anti-thionite, anti-Vee-Two, anti-everything. In
fact, antisocial. I'll spread their pictures around and see if anybody knows either of
them."
     He did so, and over a hundred of the Patrol's shrewdest operatives -- upon this
occasion North America had invaded Eridan in force -- studied and thought. No one knew
the tall brunette, but û
     "I know the blonde." This was Parker of Washington, a Service ace for twenty five
years. " `Hell-cat Hazel' DeForce, the hardest-boiled babe unhung. Watch your step
around her; she's just as handy with a knife and knock-out drops as she is with a gun."
     "'Thanks, Parker. I've heard of her." Costigan was thinking fast. "Free-lance. No
way of telling who she's working for at the moment." This was a statement, not a
question.
     "Only that it would have to be somebody with a lot of money. Her price is high.
That all?"
     "That's all, fellows." Then, to Jack and Northrop: "My thought is that you two guys
are completely out-classed, out-weighed, out-numbered, out-manned, and out-gunned.
Undressed, you're sitting ducks; and if you put out any screens it'll crystallize their
suspicions and they'll grab you right then -- or maybe even knock you off. You'd better
get out of here at full blast; you can't do any more good here, the way things are."
     "Sure we can!" Kinnison protested. "You wanted a diversion, didn't you?"
     "Yes, but you already . . "
     "What we've done already isn't a. patch to what we can do next. We can set up
such a diversion that the boys can walk right on the thionite-carrier's heels without
anybody paying any attention. By the way, you don't know yet who is going to carry it, do
you?"
     "No. No penetration at all."
     "You soon will, bucco. Watch our smoke!"
     "What do you think you're going to do?" Costigan demanded, sharply.
     "This." Jack explained. "And don't try to say no. We're
on our own, you know."
     "We . . . l . . . l . . . it sounds good, and if you can pull it off it will help no end. Go
ahead."
     The demurely luscious blonde stared disconsolately at the bulletin board, upon
which another thirty minutes was being added to the time of arrival of a ship already
three hours late. She picked up a book, glanced at its cover, put it down. Her hand
moved toward a magazine, drew back, dropped idly into her lap. She sighed, stifled a
yawn prettily, leaned backward in her seat -- in such a position, Jack noticed, that he
could not see into her nostrils -- and closed her eyes. And Jack Kinnison, coming visibly
to a decision, sat down beside her.
     "Pardon me, miss, but I feel just like you look. Can you tell me why convention
decrees that two people, stuck in this concourse by arrivals that nobody knows when will
arrive, have got to suffer alone when they could have so much more fun suffering
together?"
     The girl's eyes opened slowly; she was neither startled, nor afraid, nor -- it
seemed -- even interested. In fact, she gazed at him with so much disinterest and for so
long a time that he began to wonder -- was she going to play sweet and innocent to the
end?
     "Yes, conventions are stupid, sometimes," she admitted finally, her lovely lips
curving into the beginnings of a smile. Her voice, low and sweet, matched perfectly the
rest of her charming self. "After all, perfectly nice people do meet informally on
shipboard; why not in concourses?"
     "Why not, indeed? And I'm perfectly nice people, I assure you. Willi Borden is the
name. My friends call me Bill. Anal you?"
     "Beatrice Bailey; Bee for short. Tell me what you like, and we'll talk about it."
     "Why talk, when we could be eating? I'm with a guy.
     He's out on the field somewhere  -- a big bruiser with a pencil stripe black
mustache. Maybe you saw him talking to me a while back?"
     "I think so, now that you mention him. Too big -- much too big." The girl spoke
carelessly, but managed to make it very clear that Jack Kinnison was just exactly the
right size. "Why?"
     "I told him I'd have supper with him. Shall we hunt him up and eat together?"
     "Why not? Is he alone?"
     "He was, when I saw him last." Although Jack knew exactly where Northrop was,
and who was with him, he had to play safe; he did not know how much this "Bee Bailey"
really knew. "He knows a lot more people around here than I do, though, so maybe he
isn't now. Let me carry some of that plunder?"
     "You might carry those books -- thanks. But the field is so big -- how do you
expect to find him? Or do you know where he is?"

"Uh-uh!" he denied, vigorously. This was the critical moment. She certainly wasn't
auspicious -- yet -- but she was showing signs of not wanting to go out there, and if she
refused to go . . . "To be honest, I don't care whether I find him or not -- the idea of
ditching him appeals to me more and more. So how about this? We'll dash out to the
third dock û  just so I won't have to actually lie about looking for him -- and dash right
back here. Or wouldn't you rather have it a twosome?"
     "I refuse to answer, by advice of counsel." The girl laughed gaily, but her answer
was plain enough.
     Their rate of progress was by no means a dash, and Kinnison did not look -- with
his eyes -- for Northrop. Nevertheless, just south of the third dock, the two young couples
met.
     "My cousin, Grace James," Northrop said, without a tremor or a quiver. "Wild Willi
Borden, Grace -- usually called Baldy on account of his hair."
     The girls were introduced; each vouchsafing the other a completely meaningless
smile and a colorlessly conventional word of greeting. Were they, in fact as in seeming,
total strangers? Or were they in fact working together as closely as were the two young
Lensmen themselves? If that was acting, it was a beautiful job; neither man could detect
the slightest flaw in the performance of either girl.
     "Whither away, pilot?" Jack allowed no lapse of time. "You know all the places
around here. Lead us to a good one."
     "This way, my old and fragrant fruit." Northrop led off with a flourish, and again
Jack tensed. The walk led straight past the third-class, apparently deserted dock of
which a certain ultra-fast vessel was the only occupant. If nothing happened for fifteen
more seconds . .
     Nothing did. The laughing, chattering four came abreast of the portal. The door
swung open and the Lensmen went into action.
     They did not like to strong-arm women, but speed was their first consideration,
with safety a close second; and it is impossible for a man to make speed while carrying
a conscious, lithe, strong, heavily-armed woman in such a position that she cannot use
fists, feet, teeth, gun or knife. An unconscious woman, on the other hand, can be carried
easily and safely enough. Therefore Jack spun his partner around, forced both of her
hands into one of his. The free hand flashed upward toward the neck; a hard finger
pressed unerringly against a nerve; the girl went limp. The two victims were hustled
aboard and the space-ship, surrounded now by fullcoverage screen, took off.
     Kinnison paid no attention to ship or course; orders had been given long since and
would be carried out. Instead, he lowered his burden to the floor, spread her out flat, and
sought out and removed item after item of wiring, apparatus, and offensive and defensive
armament. He did not undress her -- quite -- but he made completely certain that the only
weapons left to the young lady were those with which Nature had endowed her. And,
Northrop having taken care of his alleged cousin with equal thoroughness, the small-arms
were sent out and both doors of the room were securely locked.
     "Now, Hell-cat Hazel DeForce," Kinnison said, conversationally, "You can snap out
of it any time -- you've been back to normal for at least two minutes. You've found out
that your famous sex-appeal won't work. There's nothing loose you can grab, and you're
too smart an operator to tackle me bare-handed. Who's the captain of your team -- you
or the clothes-horse?"
     "Clothes-horse!" the statuesque brunette exclaimed, but her protests were
drowned out. The blonde could -- and did talk louder, faster, and rougher.
     "Do you think you can get away with this?" she demanded. "Why, you . . ." and
the unexpurgated, trenchant, brilliantly detailed characterization could have seared its
way through four-ply asbestos. "And just what do you think you're going to do with me?"
     "As to the first, I think so," Kinnison replied, ignoring the deep-space verbiage. "As
to the second -- as of now I don't know. What would you do if our situations were
reversed?"
     "I'd blast you to a cinder -- or else take a knife and . . ."
     "Hazel!" the brunette cautioned sharply. "Carefull You'll touch them off and they'll .
. ."
     "Shut up, Jane! They won't hurt us any more than they have already; it's
psychologically impossible. Isn't that true, copper?" Hazel lighted a cigarette, inhaled
deeply, and blew a cloud of smoke at Kinnison's face.
     "Pretty much so, I guess," the Lensman admitted, frankly enough, "but we can put
you away for the rest of your lives."
     "Space-happy? Or do you think I am?" she sneered. "What would you use for a
case? We're as safe as if we were in God's pocket. And besides, our positions will be
reversed
     pretty quick. You may not know it, but the fastest ships in space are chasing us,
right now."
     "For once you're wrong. We've got plenty of legs ourselves and we're blasting for
rendezvous with a task-force. But enough of this chatter. I want to know what job you're
on and why you picked on us. Give."
     "Oh, does 'oo?" Hazel cooed, venomously. "Come and sit on mama's lap, iffy bitty
soldier boy, and she'll tell you everything you want to know."

Both Lensmen probed, then, with everything they had, but learned nothing of value. The
women did not know what the Patrolmen were trying to do, but they were so intensely
hostile that their mental blocks, unconscious although they were, were as effective as
full-driven thought screens against the most insidious approaches the men could make.
     "Anything in their hand-bags, Mase?" Jack asked, finally,
     "I'll look . . . Nothing much just this," and the very tone. lessness of Northrop's
voice made Jack look up quickly.
     "Just a letter from the boy-friend." Hazel shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing hot --
not even warm -- go ahead and read it.
     "Not interested in what it says, but it might be smart to develop it, envelope and
all, for invisible ink and whatnot." He did so, deeming it a worth-while expenditure of time.
He already knew what the hidden message was; but no one not of the Patrol should
know that no transmission of intelligence, however coded or garbled or disguised or by
whatever means sent, could be concealed from any wearer of Arisia's Lens.
     "Listen, Hazel," Kinnison said, holding up the now slightly stained paper. " `Three
six two' -- that's you, I suppose, and you're the squad leader -- `Men mentioned
previously being investigated stop assign three nine eight' -- that must be you, Java --
`and make acquaintance stop if no further instructions received by eighteen hundred
hours liquidate immediately stop party one."
     The blond operative lost for the first time her brazen control. "Why . . . that code
is unbreakable!" she gasped.
     "Wrong again, Gentle Alice. Some of us are specialists.' He directed s thought at
Northrop. "This changes things slightly, Mase. I was going to turn them loose, but now I
don't know. Better we take it up with the boss, don't you think?"
     "Pos-i-tive-ly!"
     Samms was called, and considered the matter for approximately one minute.
"Your first idea was right, Jack. Let them go. The message may be helpful and
informative, but the women would not. They know nothing. Congratulations, boys, on the
complete success of Operation Red Herring."
     "Ouch!" Jack grimaced mentally to his partner after the First Lensman had cut off.
"They know enough to be in on bumping you and me off, but that ain't important, says
be!"
     "And it ain't, bub," Northrop grinned' back. "Moderately so, maybe, if they had got
us, but not at all so now they can't. The Lensmen have landed and the situation is well in
hand. It is written. Selah."
     "Check. Let's wrap it up." Jack turned to the blonde. "Come on, Hazel. Out.
Number Four lifeboat. Do you want to come peaceably or shall I work on your neck
again?"
     "You could think of other places that would be more fun." She got up and stared
directly into his eyes, her lip curling. "That is, if you were a man instead of a sublimated
Boy Scout."
     Kinnison, without a word, wheeled and unlocked a door. Hazel swaggered
forward, but the taller girl hung back. "Are you sure there's air-and they'll pick us up?
Maybe they're going to make us breathe space . . ."
     "Huh? They haven't got the guts," Hazel sneered. "Come on, Jane. Number Four,
you said, darling?"
     She led the way. Kinnison opened the portal. Jane hurried aboard, but Hazel
paused and held our her arms.
     "Aren't you even going to kiss mama goodbye, baby boy?" she taunted.
     "Better not waste much more time. We blow this boat, sealed or open, in fifteen
seconds." By what effort Kinnison held his voice level and expressionless, he hoped the
wench would never know.
     She looked at him, started to say something, looked again. She had gone just
about as far as it was safe to go. She stepped into the boat and reached for the lever.
And as the valve was swinging smoothly shut the men heard a tinkling laugh, reminiscent
of icicles breaking against steel bells.
     "Hell's-Brazen-Hinges!" Kinnison wiped his forehead as the lifeboat shot away.
Hazel was something brand new to him; a phenomenon with which none of his education,
training, or experience had equipped him to cope. "I've heard about the guy who got hold
of a tiger by the tail, but . . :' His thought expired on a wondering, confused note.
     "Yeah." Northrop was in no better case. "We won û technically û I guess û or did
we? That was a God-awful drubbing we took, mister."
     "Well, we got away alive, anyway . . . We'll tell Parker his dope is correct to the
proverbial twenty decimals. And now that we've escaped, let's call Spud , and see how
things came out."
     And Costigan-Jones assured them that everything had come out very well indeed.
The shipment of thionite had been followed without any difficulty at all, from the
spaceship clear through to Jones' own office, and it exposed now in Department Q's own
safe, under Jones' personal watch and ward. The pressure had lightened tremendously,
just as Kinnison and Northrop had thought it would, when they set up their diversion.
Costigan listened impassively to the whole story.
     "Now should I have shot her, or not?" Jack demanded. "Not whether I could have
or not -- I couldn't -- but should I have, Spud?"
     "I don't know." Costigan thought for minutes. "I don't think so. No -- not in cold
blood. I couldn't have, either, and wouldn't if I could. It wouldn't be worth it. Somebody
will shoot her some day, but not one of us -- unless, of course, it's in a fight."
     'Thanks, Spud; that makes me feel better. Off."
     Costigan-Jones' desk was already clear, since there was little or no paper-work
connected with his position in Department Q. Hence his preparations for departure were
few and simple. He merely opened the safe, stuck the package into his pocket, closed
and locked the safe, and took a company ground-car to the spaceport.
     Nor was there any more formality about his leaving the planet. Eridan had, of
course, a Customs frontier of sorts; but since Uranium Inc. owned Eridan in fee simple,
its Customs paid no attention whatever to company ships or to low-number, gold-badge
company men. Nor did Jones need ticket, passport, or visa. Company men rode
company ships to and from company plants, wherever situated, without let or hindrance.
Thus, wearing the aura of power of his new position -- and Gold Badge Number Thirty
Eight -- George W. Jones was whisked out to the uranium ship and was shown to his
cabin.
     Nor was it surprising that the trip from Eridan to . Earth was completely without
incident. This was an ordinary freighter, hauling uranium on a routine flight. Her cargo
was valuable, of course -- the sine qua non. of interstellar trade -- but in no sense
precious. Not pirate-bait, by any means. And only two men knew that this flight was in
any whit different from the one which had preceded it or the one which would follow it. If
this ship was escorted or guarded the fact was not apparent: and no Patrol vessel came
nearer to it than four deters -- Virgil Samms and Roderick Kinnison saw to that.
     The voyage, however, was not tedious. Jones was busy every minute. In fact,
there were scarcely minutes enough in which to assimilate the material which Isaacson
had given him -- the layouts, flow-sheets, and organization charts of Works Number
Eighteen, on Tellus.
     And upon arrival at the private spaceport which was an integral part of Works
Number Eighteen, Jones was not surprised (he knew more now than be had known a
few weeks before; and infinitely more than the man on the street) to learn that the
Customs men of this particular North American Port of Entry were just as complaisant as
were those of Eridan. They did not bother even to count the boxes, to say nothing of
inspecting them. They stamped the ship's papers without either reading or checking
them. They made a perfunctory search, it is true, of crewmen and quarters, but a low
number gold badge was still a magic talisman. Unquestioned, sacrosanct, he and his
baggage were escorted to the ground-car first in line.
     "Administration Building," Jones-Costigan told the hacker, and that was that.

     CHAPTER 16

It has been said that the basic drive of the Eddorians was a lust for power; a thought
which should be elucidated and perhaps slightly modified. Their warrings, their strifes,
their internecine intrigues and connivings were inevitable because of the tremendousness
and capability -- and the limitations -- of their minds. Not enough could occur upon any
one planet to keep such minds as theirs even partially occupied; and, unlike the Arisians,
they could not satiate themselves in
     a static philosophical study of the infinite possibilities of the Cosmic All. They had
to be doing something; or, better yet, making other and lesser beings do things to make
the physical universe conform to their idea of what a universe should be.
     Their first care was to set up the various echelons of control. The second echelon,
immediately below the Masters, was of course the most important, and after a survey of
both galaxies they decided to give this high honor to the Ploorans. Ploor, as is now well
known, was a planet of a sun so variable that all Plooran life had to undergo radical
cyclical changes in physical form in order to live through the tremendous climatic charges
involved in its every year. Physical form, however, meant nothing to the Eddorians. Since
no other planet even remotely like theirs existed in this, our normal plenum, physiques like
theirs would be impossible; and the Plooran mentality left very little to be desired.
     In the third echelon there were many different races, among which the frigid-
blooded, poison-breathing Eich were perhaps the most efficient sad most callous; and in
the fourth there were millions upon millions of entities representing thousands upon
thousands of widely-variant races.
     Thus, at the pinpoint in history represented by the time of Virgil Samms and
Roderick Kinnison, and Eddorians were busy; and if such a word can be used, happy.
Gharlane of Eddore, second in authority only to the All-Highest, His Ultimate Supremacy
himself, paid little attention to any one planet or to any one race. Even such a mind .as
his, when directing the affairs of twenty million and then sixty million and then a hundred
million worlds, can do so only in broad, and not in fine.
     And thus the reports which were now flooding in to Gharlane in a constantly
increasing stream concerned Classes and groups of worlds, and solar systems, and
galactic regions. A planet might perhaps be mentioned as representative of a class, but
no individual entity lower than a Plooran was named or discussed. Gharlane analyzed
those tremendous reports; collated, digested, compared, and reconciled them;
determined trends and tendencies and most probable resultants. Gharlane issued
orders, the carrying out of which would make an entire galactic region fit more and ever
more exactly into the Great Plan.
     But, as has been pointed out, there was one flaw inherent in the Boskoniaa
system. Underlings, then as now, were prone to gloss over their own mistakes, to cover
up their
own incompetences. Thus, since he had no reason to inquire specifically, Gharlane did
not know that anything whatever had gone amiss on Sol Three, the pestiferous planet
which had formerly caused him more trouble than all the rest of his worlds combined.
     After the fact, it is easy to say that he should have continued his personal
supervision of Earth, but can that view be defended? Egotistical, self-confident, arrogant,
Gharlane knew that he had finally whipped Tellus into line. It was the same now as any
other planet of its class. And even had he thought it worth while to make such a glaring
exception, would not the fused Elders of Arisia have intervened?
     Be those things as they may, Gharlane did not know that the new-born Galactic
Patrol had been successful in defending Triplanetary's Hill against the Black Fleet. Nor
did the Plooran Assistant Director in charge. Nor did any member of that dreadful group
of Eich which was even then calling itself the Council of Boskone. The highest-ranking
Boskonian who knew of the fiasco, calmly confident of his own ability, had not considered
this minor reverse of sufficient importance to report to his immediate superior. He had
already taken steps to correct the condition. In fact, as matters now stood, the thing was
more fortunate than otherwise, in that it would lull the Patrol into believing themselves in a
position of superiority -- a belief which would, at election time, prove fatal.
     This being, human to the limit of classification except for a faint but unmistakable
blue coloration, had been closeted with Senator Morgan for a matter of two hours.
     "In the matters covered, your reports have been complete and conclusive," the
visitor said finally, "but you have not reported on the Lens."
     "Purposely. We are investigating it, but any report based upon our present
knowledge would be partial and inconclusive."
     "I see. Commendable enough, usually. News of this phenomenon has, however,
gone farther and higher than you think and I have been ordered to take cognizance of it;
to decide whether or not to handle it myself."
     "I am thoroughly capable of . . ."
     "I will decide that, not you." Morgan subsided. "A partial report is therefore in
order. Go ahead."
     "According to the procedure submitted and approved, a Lensman was taken alive.
Since the Lens has telepathic properties, and hence is presumably operative at great
distances the operation was carried out in the shortest possible time. The Lens,
immediately upon , removal from the Patrolman's arm, ceased to radiate and the
operative who held the thing died. It was then applied by force to four other men û
workers, these, of no importance. All four died, thus obviating all possibility of
coincidence. An attempt was made to analyze a fragment of the active material, without
success. It seemed to be completely inert. Neither was it affected by electrical
discharges or by sub-atomic bombardment, nor by any temperatures available.
Meanwhile, the man was of course being questioned, under truth-drug and beams. His
mind denied any knowledge of the nature of the Lens; a thing which I am rather inclined
to believe. His mind adhered to, the belief that he obtained the Lens upon the planet
Arisia. I am offering for your consideration my opinion that the high-ranking officers of the
Patrol are using hypnotism to conceal the real source of the Lens."
     "Your opinion is accepted for consideration"
     "The man died during examination. Two minutes after his death his Lens
disappeared."
     "Disappeared? What do you mean? Flew away? Vanished? Was stolen?
Disintegrated? Or what?"
     "No. More like evaporation or sublimation, except that there was no gradual
diminution in volume, and there was no detectable residue, either solid, liquid, or
gaseous. The platinum-alloy bracelet remained intact."
     "And then?"
     "The Patrol attacked in force and our expedition was destroyed."
     "You are sure of these observational facts?"
     "I have the detailed records. Would you like to see them?"
     "Send them to my office. I hereby relieve you of all responsibility in the matter of
the Lens. In fact, even I may decide to refer it to a higher echelon. Have you any other
material, not necessarily facts, which may have bearing?"
     "None," Morgan replied; and it was just as well for Virgilia Samms' continued well-
being that the Senator did not think it worth while to mention the traceless disappearance
of his Number One secretary and a few members of a certain unsavory gang. To his way
of thinking, the Lens was not involved, except perhaps very incidentally. Herkimer, in
spite of advice and orders, had probably got rough with the girl, and Samms' mob had
rubbed him out. Served him right.

"I have no criticism of any phase of your work. You are doing a particularly nice job on
thionite. You are of course observing all specified precautions as to key personnel?"
     "Certainly. Thorough testing and unremitting watchfulness. Our Mr. Isaacson is
about to promote a man who has proved very satisfactory. Keep them that way.
Goodbye." The visitor strode out.
     Morgan reached for a switch, then drew his hand back. No. He would like to sit in
on the forthcoming interview, but he did not have the time. He had tested Olmstead
repeatedly and personally; he knew what the man was. It was Isaacson's department;
let Isaacson handle it. He himself must work full time at the job which only he could
handle; the Nationalists must and would win this forthcoming election.
     And in the office of the president of Interstellar Spaceways, Isaacson got up and
shook hands with George Olmstead.
     "I called you in for two reasons. First, in reply to your message that you were
ready for a bigger job. What makes you think that any such are available?"
     "Do I need to answer that?"
     "Perhaps not . . . no." The magnate smiled quietly. Morgan was right; this man
could not be accused of being dumb. "There is such a job, you are ready for it, and you
have your successor trained in the work of harvesting. Second, why did you cut down,
instead of increasing as ordered, the weight of broadleaf per trip? This, Olmstead, is
really serious."
     "I explained why. It would have been more serious the other way. Didn't you
believe I knew what I was talking about?"
     "Your reasoning may have been distorted in transmittal. I want it straight from
you."
     "Very well. It isn't smart to be greedy. There's a point at which something that has
been merely a nuisance becomes a thing that has to be wiped out. Since I didn't want to
be in that ferry when the Patrol blows it out of the ether, I cut down the take, and I
advise you to keep it down. What you're getting now is a lot more than you ever got
before, and a hell of a lot more than none at all. Think it over."
     "I see. Upon what basis did you arrive at the figure you established?"
     "Pure guesswork, nothing else. I guessed that about three hundred percent of the
previous average per month ought to satisfy anybody who wasn't too greedy to have
good sense, and that more than that would ring a loud, clear bell right where we don't
want any noise made. So I cut it down to three, and advised Ferdy either to keep it at
three or quit while he was still all in one piece."
     "You exceeded your authority . . . and were insubordinate . . . but it wouldn't
surprise me if you were right. You are certainly right in principle, and the poundage can
be determined by statistical and psychological analysis. But in the meantime, there is
tremendous pressure for increased production."
     "I know it. Pressure be damned. My dear cousin Virgil is, as you already know, a
crackpot. He is visionary, idealistic, full of sweet and beautiful concepts of what the
universe would be like if there weren't so many people like you and me in it; but don't
ever make the mistake of writing him off as anybody's fool. And you know, probably
better than I do, what Rod Kinnison is like. If I were you I'd tell whoever is doing the
screaming to shut their damn mouths before they get their teeth kicked down their
throats."
     "I'm very much inclined to take your advice. And now as to this proposed
promotion. You are of course familiar in a general way with our operation at Northport?"
     "I could scarcely help knowing something about the biggest uranium works on
Earth. However, I am not well enough qualified in detail to make a good technical
executive."
     "Nor is it necessary. Our thought is to make you a key man in a new and
increasingly important branch of the business, known as Department Q. It is concerned
neither with production nor with uranium."
     "Q as in `quiet', eh? I'm listening with both ears. What duties would be connected
with this . . . er . . . position? What would I really do?"
     Two pails of hard eyes locked and held, staring yieldlessly into each other's
depths.
     "You would not be unduly surprised to learn that substances other than uranium
occasionally reach Northport?"
     "Not too surprised, no," Olmstead replied dryly. "What would I do with it?"
     "We need not go into that here or now. I offer you the position."
     "I accept it."
     "Very well. I 'will take you to Northport, and we will continue our talk en route."
     And in a spy-ray-proof, sound-proof compartment of a Spaceways-owned
stratoliner they did so.
     "Just for my information, Mr. Isaacson, how many predecessors have I had on
this particular job, and what happened to them? The Patrol get them?"

"Two. No; we have not been able to find any evidence that the Samms crowd has any
suspicion of us. Both were too small for the job; neither could handle personnel. One got
funny ideas, the other couldn't stand the strain. If you don't get funny ideas, and don't
crack up, you will make out in a big -- and I mean really big -- way."
     "If I do either I'll be more than somewhat surprised." Olmstead's features set
themselves into a mirthless, uncompromising, somehow bitter grin.
     "So will I." Isaacson agreed.
     He knew what this man was, and just how case-hardened he was. He knew that
he had fought Morgan himself to a scoreless tie after twisting Herkimer -- and he was no
soft touch -- into a pretzel in nothing flat. At the thought of the secretary, so recently and
so mysteriously vanished, the magnate's mind left for a moment the matter in hand. What
was at the bottom of that affair -- the Lens or the woman? Or both? If he were in
Morgan's shoes . . . but he wasn't He had enough grief of his own, without worrying
about any of Morgan's stinkeroos. He studied Olmstead's inscrutable, subtly sneering
smile and knew that he had made a wise decision.
     "I gather that I am going to be one of the main links in the primary chain of
deliveries. What's the technique, and how do I cover up?"
     "Technique first You go fishing. You are an expert at that, I believe?"
     "You might say so. I won't have to do any faking there."
     "Some week-end soon, and every week-end later on, we hope, you will indulge in
your favorite sport at some lake or other. You will take the customary solid and liquid
refreshments along in a lunch-box. When you have finished eating you will toss the lunch-
box overboard."
     "That all?"
     "That's all."
     "The lunch-box, then, will be slightly special?"
     "More or less, although it will look ordinary enough. Now as to the cover-up. How
would 'Director of Research' sound?"
     "I don't know. Depends on what the researchers are doing. Before I became an
engineer I was a pure scientist of sorts; but that was quite a while ago and I was never a
specialist."
     "That is one reason why I think you will do. We have plenty of specialists -- too
many, I often think. They dash off in all directions, without rhyme or reason. What we
want is a man with enough scientific training to know in general what is going on, but
what he will need mostly is hard common sense, and enough ability -- mental force, you
might call it û to hold the specialists down to earth and make them pull together. If you
can do it -- and if I didn't think you could I wouldn't be talking to you -- the whole force
will know that you are earning your pay; just as we could not hide the fact that your two
predecessors weren't."
     "Put that way it sounds good. I wouldn't wonder if I could handle it."
     The conversation went on, but the rest of it is of little importance here. The plane
landed. Isaacson introduced the new Director of Research to Works Manager Rand, who
in turn introduced him to a few of his scientists and to the svelte and spectacular red-
head who was to be his private secretary.
     It was clear from the first that the Research Department was not going to be an
easy one to manage. The top men were defiant, the middle ranks were sullen, the
smaller fry were apprehensive as well as sullen. The secretary flaunted chips on both
shapely shoulders. I Men and women alike expected the application of the old wheeze "a
new broom sweeps clean" for the third time in scarcely twice that many months, and they
were defying him to do his worst. Wherefore they were very much surprised when the
new boss did nothing whatever for two solid weeks except read reports and get
acquainted with his department.
     "How d'ya like your new boss, May?" another secretary asked, during a break.
     "Oh, not too bad . . . I guess." May's tone was full of reservations. "He's quiet--
sort of reserved -- no passes or anything like that -- it'd be funny if I finally got a boss
that had something on the ball, wouldn't it? But you know what, Molly?" The red-head
giggled suddenly. "I had a camera-fiend first, you know, with a million credits' worth of
stereo-cams and such stuff, and then a golf-nut. I wonder what this Dr. Olmstead does
with his spare cash?"
     "You'll find out, dearie, no doubt." Molly's tone gave the words a meaning slightly
different from the semantic one of their arrangement.
     "I intend to, Molly -- I fully intend to." May's meaning, too, was not expressed
exactly by the sequence of words used. "It must be tough, a boss's life. Having to sit at a
desk or be in conference six or seven hours a day -- when he isn't playingaround
somewhere -- for a measly thousand credits or so a month. How do they get that way?"
     "You said it, May. You really said it. But we'll get ours, huh?"
     Time went on. George Olmstead studied reports, and more reports. He read one,
and re-read it, frowning. He compared it minutely with another; then sent red-headed
May to hunt up one which had been turned in a couple of weeks before. He took them
home that evening, and in the morning he punched three buttons. Three stiffly polite
young men obeyed his summons.
     "Good morning, Doctor Olmstead."
     "Morning, boys. I'm not up on the fundamental theory of any one of these three
reports, but if you combine this, and this, and this," -- indicating heavily-penciled sections
of the three documents, "would you, or would you not, be able to work out a process that
would do away with about three-quarters of the final purification and separation
processes?"
     They did not know. It had not been the business of any one of them, or of all them
collectively, to find out.
     "I'm making it your business as of now. Drop whatever you're doing; put your
heads together, and find out. Theory first, then a small-scale laboratory experiment. Then
come back here on the double."
     "Yes, sir," and in a few days they were back.
     "Does it work?"
     "In theory it should, sir, and on a laboratory scale it does." The three young men
were, if possible, even stiffer than before. It was not the first time, nor would it 'be the
last, that a Director of Research would seize credit for work which he was not capable of
doing.
     "Good. Miss Reed, get me Rand . . . Rand? Olmstead. Three of my boys have
just hatched out something that may be worth quite a few million credits a year to us . . .
Me? Hell, no! Talk to them. I can't understand any one of the three parts of it, to say
nothing of inventing it. I want you to give 'em a class AAA priority on the pilot plant, -- as
of right now. If they can develop it, and I'm betting they can, I'm going to put their
pictures in the Northport News and give 'em a couple of thousand credits apiece and a
couple of weeks vacation to spend it in . . . Yeah, I'll send 'em in." He turned to the
flabbergasted three. "Take your dope in to Rand -- now. Show him what you've got; then
tear into that pilot plant."
     And, a little later, Molly and May again met in the powder room.
          "So your new boss is a fisherman!" Molly snickered. "And they say he paid
over two hundred credits for a reel! You were right, May; a boss's life must be mighty
hard to take. And he sits around more and does less, they say, than any other exec in
the plant."
     "Who says so, the dirty, sneaking liars?" the red-head blazed, completely
unaware that she had reversed her former position. "And even if it was so, which it isn't,
he can do more work sitting perfectly still than any other boss in the whole Works can do
tearing around at forty parsecs a minute, so there!"
     George Olmstead was earning his salary.
     His position was fully consolidated when, a few days later, a tremor of excitement
ran through the Research Department. "Heads up, everybody! Mr. Isaacson -- himself --
is coming -- here! What for, I wonder? Y'don't s'pose he's going to take the Old Man
away from us already, do you?"
     He came. He went through, for the first time, the entire department. He observed
minutely, and he understood what he saw.
     Olmstead led the Big Boss into his private office and flipped the switch which
supposedly rendered that sanctum proof against any and all. forms of spying,
eavesdropping, intrusion, and communication. It did not, however, close the deeper,
subtler channels which the Lensmen used.
     "Good work, George. So damned good that I'm going to have to take you out of
Department Q entirely and make you Works Manager of our new plant on Vegia. Have
you got a man you can break in to take your place here?"
     "Including Department Q? No." Although Olmstead did not show it; he was
disappointed at hearing the word "Vegia". He had been aiming much higher than that -- at
the secret planet of the Boskonian Armed Forces, no less -- but there might still be
enough time to win a transfer there.
     "Excluding. I've got another good man here now for that. Jones. Not heavy
enough, though, for Vegia."
     "In that case, yes. Dr. Whitworth, one of the boys who worked out the new
process. It'll take a little time, though. Three weeks minimum."
     "Three weeks it is. Today's Friday. You've got things in shape, haven't you, so
that you can take the week-end off?"
     "I was figuring on it. I'm not going where I thought I was, though, I imagine."
     "Probably not. Lake Chesuncook, on Route 273. Rough country, and the hotel is
something less than fourth rate, but the fishing can't be beat."
     "I'm glad of that. When I fish, I like to catch something."
     "It would smell if you didn't. They stock lunch-boxes in the cafeteria, you know.
Have your girl get you one, full of sandwiches and stuff. Start early this afternoon, as
soon as you can after I leave. Be sure and see Jones, with your lunch-box, before you
leave. Good-bye."
     "Miss Reed, please send Whitworth in. Then skip .down to the cafeteria and get
me a lunch-box. Sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. Provender suitable for a wet and
hungry fisherman."
     "Yes, sir!" There were no chips now; the red-head's boss was the top ace of the
whole plant.
     "Hi, Ned. Take the throne." Olmstead waved his hand at the now vacant chair
behind the big desk. "Hold it down 'til I get back. Monday, maybe."
     "Going fishing, huh?" Gone was all trace of stiffness, of reserve, of unfriendliness.
"You big, lucky stiff!"
     "Well, my brilliant young squirt, maybe you'll get old and fat enough to go fishing
yourself some day. Who knows? 'Bye."
     Lunch-box in hand and encumbered with tackle, Olmstead walked blithely along
the corridor to the office of Assistant Works Manager Jones. While he had not known
just what to expect, he was not surprised to see a lunch-box exactly like his own upon
the side-table. He placed his box beside it.
     "Hi, Olmstead." By no slightest flicker of expression did either Lensman step out
of character. "Shoving off early?"
     "Yeah. Dropped by to let the Head Office know I won't be in 'til Monday."
     "O.K. So'm I, but more speed for me. Chemquassabamticook Lake."
     "Do you pronounce that or sneeze it? But have fun, my boy. I'm combining
business with pleasure, though -- breaking in Whitworth on my job. That Fair play thing is
going to break in about an hour, and it'll scare the pants off of him. But it'll keep until
Monday, anyway, and if he handles it right he's just about in."
     Jones grinned. "A bit brutal, perhaps, but a sure way to find out. 'Bye."
     "So long." Olmstead strolled out, nonchalantly picking up the wrong lunch box on
the way, and left the building.

He ordered his Dillingham, and tossed the lunch-box aboard as carelessly as though it
did not contain an unknown number of millions of credits' worth of clear-quill, uncut
thionite.
     "I hope you have a nice week-end, sir," the yard-man said, as he helped stow
baggage and tackle.
     "Thanks, Otto. I'll bring you a couple of fish Monday, if I catch that many," and it
should be said in passing that be brought them. Lensmen keep their promises, under
whatever circumstances or however lightly given.
     It being mid-afternoon of Friday, the traffic was already heavy. Northport was not
a metropolis, of course; but on the other hand it did not have metropolitan multi-tiered,
one-way, non-intersecting streets. But Olmstead was in no hurry. He inched his
spectacular mount -- it was a violently iridescent chrome green in color, with highly
polished chromium gingerbread wherever there was any excuse for gingerbread to be -
across the city and into the north-bound side of the superhighway. Even then, he did not
hurry. He wanted to hit the inspection station at the edge of the Preserve at dusk. Ninety
miles an hour would do it. He worked his way into the ninety-mile lane and became
motionless relative to the other vehicles on the strip.
     It was a peculiar sensation; it seemed as though the cars themselves were
stationary, with the pavement flowing backward beneath them. There was no passing, no
weaving, no cutting is and out. Only occasionally would the formation be broken as a car
would shift almost imperceptibly to one side or the other; speeding up or slowing down to
match the assigned speed of the neighboring way.
     The afternoon was bright and clear, neither too hot nor too cold. Olmstead
enjoyed his drive thoroughly, and arrived at the turn-off right on schedule. Leaving the
wide, smooth way, he slowed down abruptly; even a Dillingham Super-Sporter could not
make speed on the narrow, rough, and hilly road to Chesuncook Lake.
     At dusk he reached the Post. Instead of stopping on the pavement he pulled off
the road, got out, stretched hugely, and took a few drum-major's steps to take the kinks
out of his legs.
     "A lot of road, eh?" the smartly-uniformed trooper remarked. "No guns?"
     "No guns." Olmstead opened up for inspection. "From Northport. Funny, isn't it,
how hard it is to stop, even when you aren't in any particular hurry? Guess I'll eat now --
join me in a sandwich and some hot coffee or a cold lemon sour or cherry soda?"
     "I've got my own supper, thanks; I was just going to eat. But did you say a cold
lemon sour?"
     "Uh-huh. Ice-cold. Zero degrees Centigrade."
     "I will join you, in that case. Thanks."
     Olmstead opened a frost-lined compartment; took out two half-liter bottles; placed
them and his open lunch-box invitingly on the low stone wall.
     "Hm . . . m . . . m. Quite a zipper you got there, mister." The trooper gazed
admiringly at the luxurious, two-wheeled monster; listened appreciatively to its almost
inaudible hum. "I've heard about those new supers, but that is the first one I ever saw.
Nice. All the comforts of home, eh?"
     "Just about. Sure you won't help me clean up on those sandwiches, before they
get stale?"
     Seated on the wall, the two men ate and talked. If that trooper had known what
was in the box beside his leg he probably would have fallen over backward; but how was
he even to suspect? There was nothing crass or rough or coarse about any of the work
of any of Boskone's high-level operators.
     Olmstead drove on to the lake and took up his reservation at the ramshackle
hotel. He slept, and bright and early the next morning he was up and fishing -- and this
part of the performance he really enjoyed. He knew his stuff and the fish were there; big,
wary, and game. He loved it.
     At noon he ate, and quite openly and brazenly consigned the "empty" box to the
watery deep. Even if he had not had so many fish to carry, be was not the type to lug a
cheap lunch-box back to town. He fished joyously all afternoon, without getting quite the
limit, and as the sun grazed the horizon he started his putt-putt and skimmed back to the
dock.
     The thing hadn't sent out any radiation yet, Northrop informed him tensely, but it
certainly would, and when it did they'd be ready. There were Lensmen and Patrolmen all
over the place, thicker than hair on a dog.
     And George Olmstead, sighing wearily and yet blissfully anticipatory of one more
day of enthralling sport, gathered up his equipment and his fish and strolled toward the
hotel.

     CHAPTER 17

Forty thousand miles from Earth's center the Chicago loafed along a circular arc, inert, at
a mere ten thousand miles an hour; a speed which, and not by accident, kept her
practically stationary above a certain point on the planet's surface. Nor was it by chance
that both Virgil Samms and Roderick Kinnison were aboard. And a dozen or so other
craft, cruisers and such, whose officers were out to put spacetime in their logs, were
flitting aimlessly about; but never very far away from the flagship. And farther out -- well
out -- a cordon of diesel-powered detector ships swept space to the full limit of their
prodigious reach. The navigating officers of those vessels knew to a nicety the place and
course of every ship lawfully in the ether, and the appearance of even one unscheduled
trace would set in motion a long succession of carefully-planned events.
     And far below, grazing atmosphere, never very far from the direct .line between
the Chicago and Earth's core, floated a palatial pleasure yacht. And this craft carried not
one Lensman, or two, but eight; two of whom kept their eyes fixed upon their observation
plates. They were watching a lunch box resting upon the bottom of a lake.
     "Hasn't it radiated yet?" Roderick Kinnison demanded. "Or been approached, or
moved?"
     "Not yet," Lyman Cleveland replied, crisply. "Neither Northrop's rig nor mine has
shown any sign of activity."
     He did not amplify the statement, nor was there need. Mason Northrop was a
Master Electronicist; Cleveland was perhaps the world's greatest living expert. Neither of
them had detected radiation. Ergo, none existed.
     Equally certainly the box had not moved, or been moved, or approached. "No
change, Rod," Doctor Frederick Rodebush Lensed the assured thought. "Six of us have
been watching the plates in five-minute shifts."
     A few minutes later, however: "Here is a thought which may be of interest,"
DalNalten the Venerian announced, spraying himself with a couple pints of water. "It is
natural enough, of course, for any Venerian to be in or on any water he can reach -- I
would enjoy very much being on or in that lake myself -- but it may not be entirely by
coincidence that one particular Venerian, Ossmen, is visiting this particular lake at this
particular time."
     "What!" Nine Lensmen yelled the thought practically as one.
     "Precisely. Ossmen." It was a measure of the Venenan Lensman's concern that
he used only two words instead of twenty or thirty. "In the red boat with the yellow sail."
     "Do you see any detector rigs?" Samms asked.
     "He wouldn't need any," DalNalten put in. "He will be able to see it. Or, if a little
colane had been rubbed on it which no Tellurian could have noticed, any Venerian could
smell it from one end of that lake to the other."
     "True. I didn't think of that. It may not have a transmitter after all."
     "Maybe not, but keep on listening, anyway," the Port Admiral ordered. "Bend a
plate on Ossmen, and a couple more on the rest of the boats. But Ossmen is clean, you
say, Jack? Not even a spy-ray block?"

"He couldn't have a block, Dad. It'd give too much away, here on our home grounds. Like
on Eridan, where their ops could wear anything they could lift, but we had to go naked."
He flinched mentally as he recalled his encounter with Hazel the Hell-cat, and Northrop
flinched with him.
     "That's right, Rod," Olmstead in his boat below agreed, and Conway Costigan, in
his room in Northport, concurred. The top-drawer operatives of the enemy depended for
safety upon perfection of technique, not upon crude and dangerous mechanical devices.
     "Well, since you're all so sure of it, I'll buy it," and the waiting went on.
     Under the slight urge of the light and vagrant breeze, the red boat moved slowly
across the water. A somnolent, lackadaisical youth, who very evidently cared nothing
about where the boat went, sat in its stern, with his left arm draped loosely across the
tiller. Nor was Ossmen any more concerned. His only care, apparently, was to avoid
interference with the fishermen; his under-water jaunts were long, even for a Venerian,
and he entered and left the water as smoothly as only a Venerian -- or a seal -- could.
     "However, he could have, and probably has got, a capsule spy-ray detector," Jack
offered, presently. "Or, since a Venerian can swallow anything one inch smaller than a
kitchen-stove, he could have a whole analyzing station stashed away in his stomach.
Nobody's put a beam on him yet, have you?"
     Nobody had.
     "It might be smart not to. Watch him with 'scopes . and when he gets up close to
the box, better pull your beams off of it. DalNalten, I don't suppose it would be quite
bright for you to go swimming down there too, would it?"
     "Very definitely not, which is why I am up here and dry. None of them would go
near it."
     They waited, and finally Ossmen's purposeless wanderings brought him over the
spot on the lake's bottom which was the target of so many Tellurian eyes. He gazed at
the discarded lunch-box as incuriously as he had looked at so many other sunken
objects, and swam over it as casually -- and only the ultra-cameras caught what he
actually did. He swam serenely an.
     "The box is still there," the spy-ray men reported, "but the package is gone."
     "Good!" Kinnison exclaimed. "Can you 'scopists see it on him?"
     "Ten to one they can't," Jack said. "He swallowed it. I expected him to swallow it
box and all."
     "We can't see it, sir. He must have swallowed it."
     "Make sure."
     "Yes, sir . . . He's back on the boat now and we've shot him from all angles. He's
clean -- nothing outside."
     "Perfect! That means he isn't figuring on slipping it to somebody else in a crowd.
This will be an ordinary job of shadowing from here on in, so I'll put in the umbrella."
     The detector ships were recalled. The Chicago and the various other ships of war
returned to their various bases. The pleasure craft floated away. But on the other hand
there were bursts of activity throughout the forest for a mile or so back from the shores
of the lake. Camps were struck. Hiking parties decided that they had hiked enough and
began to retrace their steps. Lithe young men, who had been doing this and that,
stopped doing it and headed for the nearest trails.
     For Kinnison pere had erred slightly in saying that the rest of the enterprise was to
be an ordinary job of shadowing. No ordinary job would do. With the game this nearly in
the bag it must be made absolutely certain that no suspicion was aroused, and yet
Samms had to have facts. Sharp, hard, clear facts; facts so self-evidently facts that no
intelligence above idiot grade could possibly mistake them for anything but facts.
     Wherefore Ossmen the Venerian was not alone thenceforth. From lake to hotel,
from hotel to car, along the road, into and in and out of train and plane, clear to an
ordinary-enough-looking building in an ordinary business section of New York,. he was
never alone. Where the traveling population was light, the Patrol operatives were few
and did not crowd the Venerian too nearly; where dense, as in a metropolitan station,
they ringed him three deep.
     He reached his destination, which was of course spy-ray proofed, late Sunday
night. He went in, remained briefly, came out.
     "Shall we spy-ray him, Virge? Follow him? Or what?"
     "No spy-rays. Follow him. Cover him like a blanket. At the usual time give him the
usual spy-ray going-over, but not until then. This time, make it thorough. Make certain
that he hasn't got it on him, in him, or in or around his house."
     "There'll be nothing doing here tonight, will there?"
     "No, it would be too noticeable. So you, Fred, and Lyman, take the first trick; the
rest of us will get some sleep."
     When the building opened Monday morning the Lensmen were back, with dozens
of others, including Knobos of Mars. There were also present or nearby literally hundreds
of the shrewdest, most capable detectives of Earth.
     "So this is their headquarters -- one of them at least," the Martian thought,
studying the trickle of people entering and leaving the building. "It is as we thought, Dal,
why we could never find it, why we could never trace any wholesaler backward. None of
us has ever seen any of these persons before. Complete change of personnel per
operation; probably interplanetary. Long periods of quiescence. Check?"
     "Check: but we have them now."
     "Just like that, huh?" Jack Kinnison jibed; and from his viewpoint his idea was the
more valid, for the wholesalers were very clever operators indeed.
     From the more professional viewpoint of Knobos and DalNalten, however, who
had fought a steadily losing battle so long, the task was not too difficult. Their forces
were beautifully organized and synchronized; they were present in such overwhelming
numbers that "tails" could be changed every fifteen seconds; long before anybody,
however suspicious, could begin to suspect any one shadow. Nor was it necessary for
the tails to signal each other, however inconspicuously, or to indicate any suspect at
change-over time.
     Lensed thoughts directed every move, without confusion or error.
     And there were tiny cameras with tremendous, protuberant lenses, the "long
eyes" capable of taking wire-sharp close ups from five hundred feet; and other devices
and apparatus and equipment too numerous to mention here.
     Thus the wholesalers were traced and their transactions with the retail peddlers
were recorded. And from that point on, even Jack Kinnison had to admit that the sailing
was clear. These small fry were not smart, and their customers were even less so. None
had screens or detectors or other apparatus; their every transaction could be and was
recorded from a distance of many miles by the ultra-instruments of the Patrol. And not
only the transactions. Clearly, unmistakably, the purchaser was followed from buying to
sniffing; nor was the time intervening ever long. Thionite, then as now, was bought at
retail only to use, and the whole ghastly thing went down on tape and film. The gasping,
hysterical appeal; the exchange of currency for drug; the headlong rush to a place of
solitude; the rigid muscle-lock and the horribly ecstatic transports; the shaken, soul-
searing recovery or the entranced death. It all went on record. It was sickening to have
to record such things. More than one observer did sicken in fact, and had to be relieved.
But Virgil Samms had to have concrete, positive, irrefutable evidence. He got it. Any
possible jury, upon seeing that evidence, would know it to be the truth; no possible jury,
after seeing that evidence, could bring in any verdict other than "guilty".
     Oddly enough, Jack Kinnison was the only casualty of that long and hectic day. A
man -- later proved to be a middle-sized potentate of the underworld -- who was not
even under suspicion at the time, for some reason or other got the idea that Jack was
after him. The Lensman had, perhaps, allowed some part of his long eye to show; a fast
and efficient long-range, telephoto lens is a devilishly awkward thing to conceal. At any
rate the racketeer sent out a call for help, just in case his bodyguards would not. be
enough, and in the meantime his personal attendants rallied enthusiastically around.
     They had two objects in view; One, to pass a knife expeditiously and quietly
through young Kinnison's throat from ear to ear; and: Two, to tear the long eye apart and
subject a few square inches of super-sensitive emulsion to the bright light of day. And if
the Big Shot had known that the photographer was not alone, that the big, hulking bruiser
a few feet away was also a bull, they might have succeeded.
     Two of the four hoods reached Jack just fractionally ahead of the other two; one
to seize the camera, -- the other to swing the knife. But Jack Kinnison was fast; fast of
brain and nerve and muscle. He saw them coming. In three flashing motions he bent the
barrel of the telephoto into a neat arc around the side of the first man's head, ducked
frantically under the fiercely-driven knife, and drove the toe of his boot into the spot upon
which prize-fighters like to have their rabbit-punches land. Both of those attackers lost
interest promptly. One of them lost interest permanently; for a telephoto lens in barrel is
heavy, very rigid, and very, very hard.
     While Battling Jack was still off balance, the other two guards arrived -- but so did
Mason Northrop. Mase was not quite as fast as Jack was; but, as has been pointed out,
he was bigger and much stronger. When he hit a man, with either hand, that man
dropped. It was the same as being or the receiving end of the blow of a twenty-pound
hammer falling through a distance of ninety seven and one-half feet.
     The Lensmen had of course also yelled for help, and it took only a split second for
a Patrol speedster to travel from any given point to any other in the same county. It took
no time at all for that speedster to fill a couple of square blocks with patterns of force
through which neither bullets nor beams could be driven: Therefore the battle ended as
suddenly as it began; before more thugs, with their automatics and portables, could
reach the scene.
     Kinnison fils cursed and damned fulminantly the edict which had forbidden arms
that day, and swore that he would never get out of bed again without strapping on at
least two blasters; but he had to admit finally that he had nothing to squawk about.
Kinnison pere explained quite patiently -- for him -- that all he had got out of the little
fracas was a split lip, that young Northrop's hair wasn't even mussed, and that if
everybody had been packing guns some scatter-brained young damn fool like him would
have started blasting and blown everything higher than up -- would have spoiled. Samms'
whole operation maybe beyond repair. Now would he please quit bellyaching and get to
hell out?
     He got.

                         *     *     *

"That buttons thionite up, don't you think?" Rod Kinnison asked. "And the lawyers will
have plenty of time to get the case licked into shape and lined up for trial."
     "Yes and no." Samms frowned in thought. "The evidence is complete, from
original producer to ultimate consumer; but our best guess is that it will take years to get
the really important offenders behind bars."
     "Why? I thought you were giving them altogether too much time when you
scheduled the blow-off for three weeks ahead of election."
     "Because the drug racket is only a small part of it. We're going to break the whole
thing at once, you know, and Mateese covers a lot more ground -- murder, kidnaping,
bribery, corruption, misfeasance -- practically everything you can think of."
     "I know. What of it?"
     "Jurisdiction, among other things. With the President, over half of the Congress,
much of the judiciary, and practically all of the political bosses and police chiefs of the
Continent under indictment at once, the legal problem becomes incredibly difficult. The
Patrol's Department of Law has been working on it twenty four hours a day, and the only
thing they seem sure of is a long succession of bitterly-contested points of law. There
are no precedents whatever."
     "Precedents be damned! They're guilty and everybody knows it. We'll change the
laws so that. . ."
     "We will note' Samms interrupted, sharply. "We want and we will have government
by law, not by men. We have bad too much of that already. Speed is not of the essence;
justice very definitely is."
     "'Crusader' Samms, now and forever! But I'll buy it, Virgo -- now let's get back
down to earth. Operation Zwilnik is all set. Mateese is going good. Zabriska tied into
Zwilnik. That leaves Operation Boskone, which is, I suppose, still getting nowhere fast."
     The First Lensman did not reply. It was, and both men knew it. The shrewdest,
most capable and experienced operatives of the Patrol had hit that wall with everything
they had, and had simply bounced. Low-level trials had found no point of contact, no
angle of approach. Middle level; ditto. George Olmstead, working at the highest possible
level, was morally certain that he had found a point of contact, but had not been able to
do anything with it.
     "How about calling a Council conference on it?" Kinnison asked finally. "Or
Bergenholm at least? Maybe he can get one of his hunches on it."
     "I have discussed it with them all, just as I have with you. No one had anything
constructive to offer, except to go ahead with Bennett as you are doing. The consensus
is that the Boskonians know just as much about our military affairs as we know about
theirs -- no more."
     "It would be too much to expect them to be dumb enough to figure us as dumb
enough to depend only on our visible Grand Fleet, after the warning they gave us at The
Hill," Kinnison admitted.
     "Yes. What worries me most is that they had a running start."
     "Not enough to count," the Port Admiral declared. "We can out-produce 'em and
out-fight 'em."
     "Don't be over-optimistic. You can't deny them the possession of brains, ability,
man-power and resources at least equal to ours."
     "I don't have to." Kinnison remained obstinately cheerful. "Morale, my boy, is what
counts. Man-power and tonnage and fire-power are important, of course, but morale has
won every war in history. And our morale right now is higher than a cat's back -- higher
than any time since John Paul Jones and getting higher by the day."
     "Yes?" The question was monosyllabic but potent.
     "Yes. I mean just that -- yes. From what we know of their system they can't have
the morale we've got. Anything they can do we can do more of and better. What you've
got, Virge, is a bad case of ingrowing nerves. You've never been to Bennett, in spite of
the number of times I've asked you to. I say take time right now and come along -- it'll be
good for what ails you. It will also be a very fine thing for Bennett and for the Patrol --
you'll find yourself no stranger there."
     "You may have something there . . . I'll do it."
     Port Admiral and First Lensman went to Bennett, not in the Chicago or other
superdreadnaught, but in a two-man speedster. This was necessary because space-
travel, as far as that planet was concerned, was a strictly one-way affair except for
Lensmen. Only Lensmen could leave Bennett, under any circumstances or for any reason
whatever. There was no outgoing mail, express, or freight. Even the war-vessels. of the
Fleet, while on practice maneuvers outside the bottle-tight envelopes . surrounding the
system, were so screened that no unauthorized communication could possibly be made.
     "In other words," Kinnison finished explaining, "we slapped on everything anybody
could think of, including Bergenholm and Rularion; and believe me, brother, that was a lot
of stuff."
     "But wouldn't the very fact of such rigid restrictions operate against morale? It is a
truism of psychology that imprisonment, like everything else, is purely relative."
     "Yeah, that's what I told Rularion, except I used simpler .,and rougher language.
You know how sarcastic and superior 4; be is even when he's wrong?"
     "How I know!"
     "Well, when he's right he's too damned insufferable for words. You'd've thought he
was talking to the prize boob of a class of half-wits. As long as nobody on the planet
knew that there was any such thing as space-travel, or suspected that they were not the
only form of intelligent life in the universe, it was all right. No such concept as being
planet-bound could exist. They had all the room there was. But after they met us, and
digested all the implications, they would develop the colly-wobbles no end. This, of
course, is an extreme simplification of the way the old coot poured it into me; but he
came through with the solution, so I took it like a little man."
     "What was the solution?"
     "It's a shame you were too busy to come in on it. You'll see when we land."
     But Virgil Samms was quick on the uptake. Even before they landed, he
understood. When the speedster slowed down for atmosphere be saw blazoned upon
the clouds a welter of one many-times repeated signal; as they came to ground he saw
that the same set of symbols was repeated, not only upon every available cloud, but also
upon airships, captive balloons, streamers, roofs and sides of buildings û even, in multi-
colored rocks and flower-beds, upon the ground itself.
     "Twenty Haress," Samms translated, and frowned in thought. "A date of the
Bennettan year. Would it by any chance happen to coincide with our Tellurian November
fourteenth of this present year?"
     "Bright boy!" Kinnison applauded. "I thought you'd get it, but not so fast. Yes --
election day."
     "I see. They know what is going on, then?"
     "Everything that counts. They know what we stand to win -- and lose. They've
named it Liberation Day, and everything on the planet is building up to it in a grand
crescendo. I was a little afraid of it at first, but if the screens are really tight it won't
make any difference how many people know it, and if they aren't the beans would all be
spilled anyway. And it really works -- I get a bigger thrill every time I come here."
     "I can see where it might work."
     Bennett was a fully Tellurian world in mass, in atmosphere and in climate; her
native peoples were human to the limit of classification, both physically and mentally. And
First Lensman Samms, as he toured it with his friend, found a world aflame with a zeal
and an ardor unknown to blase Earth since the days of the Crusades. The Patrol's
cleverest and shrewdest psychologists, by merely sticking to the truth, had done a
marvelous job.
     Bennett knew that it was the Arsenal and the Navy Yard of Civilization, and it was
proud of it. Its factories were humming as they had never hummed before; every
industry, every business, every farm was operating at one hundred percent of capacity.
Bennett was dotted and spattered with spaceports already built, and hundreds more
were being rushed to completion. The already staggering number of ships of war
operating out of those ports was being augmented every hour by more and ever more
ultra-modern, ultra-fast, ultra-powerful shapes.
     It was an honor to help build those ships; it was a still greater one to help man
them. Competitive examinations were being held constantly, nor were all or even most of
the applicants native Bennettans.
     Samms did not have to ask where these young people were coming from. He
knew. From all the planets of Civilization, attracted by carefully-worded advertisements
of good jobs at high pay on new and highly secret projects on newly discovered planets.
There were hundreds of such ads. Most were probably the Patrol's, and led here; many
were of Spaceways, Uranium Incorporated, and other mercantile firms. The possibility
that some of them might lead to what was now being called Boskonia had been tested
thoroughly, but with uniformly negative results. Lensmen had applied by scores for those
non-Patrol jobs and had found them bona-fide. The conclusion was unavoidable --
Boskone was doing its recruiting on planets -- unknown to any wearer of Arisia's Lens.
On the other hand, more than a trickle of Boskonians were applying for Patrol jobs, but
Samms was almost certain that none had been accepted. The final screening was done
by Lensmen, and in such matters Lensmen did not make many or serious mistakes.
     Bennett had been informed of the First Lensman's arrival, and Kinnison had been
guilty of a gross understatement indeed in telling Samms that he would not be regarded
as a stranger. Wherever Samms went he was met by wildly enthusiastic crowds. He had
to make speeches, each of which was climaxed by a tremendous roar of "TO
LIBERATION DAY!"
     "No Lensman material here, you say, Rod?" Samms asked, after the first city-
shaking demonstration was over. One of his prime concerns, throughout his life, was this.
"With all this enthusiasm? Sure?"
     "We haven't found any good enough to refer to you yet. However, in a few years,
when the younger generation gets a little older, there certainly will be."
     "Check." The tour of inspection and acquaintance was finished, the two Lensmen
started back to Earth.
     "Well, my skeptical and pessimistic friend, was I lying, or not?" Kinnison asked, as
soon as the speedster's ports were sealed. "Can they match that or not?"
     "You weren't -- and I don't believe they can. I have never seen anything like it.
Autocracies have parades and cheers and demonstrations, of course, but they have
always been forced -- artificial. Those were spontaneous."
     "Not only that, but the enthusiasm will carry through. We'll be piping hot and ready
to go. But about this stumping -- you said I'd better start as soon as we get back?"
     "Within a few days, I'd say."
     "I wouldn't wonder, so let's use this time in working out a plan of campaign. My
idea is to start out like this . . ."

     CHAPTER 18

Conway Costigan, leaving behind him scores of clues, all highly misleading, severed his
connection with Uranium, Inc. as soon as he dared after Operation Zwilnik had been
brought to a successful close. The technical operation, that is; the legal battles in which it
figured so largely were to run on for enough years to make the word "zwilnik" a common
noun and adjective in the language.
     He came to Tellus as unobtrusively as was his wont, and took an inconspicuous
but very active part in Operation Mateese, now in full swing.
     "Now is the time for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party, eh?"
Clio Costigan giggled.
     "You can play that straight across the keyboard of your electric pet, and not with
just two fingers, either. Did you hear what the boss told 'em today?"
     "Yes." The girl's levity disappeared. "They're so dirty, Spud -- I'm really afraid."
     "So am I. But we're not too lily-fingered ourselves if we have to be, and we're
covering 'em like a blanket -- Kinnison and Samms both."
     "Good."
     "And in that connection, I'll have to be out half the night again tonight. All right?"
     "Of course. It's so nice having you home at all, darling, instead of a million light-
years away, that I'm practically delirious with delight."
     It was sometimes hard to tell what impish Mrs. Costigan meant by what she said.
Costigan looked at her, decided she was taking him for a ride, and smacked her a
couple of times where it would do the most good. He then kissed her thoroughly and left.
He had very little time, these days, either to himself or for his lovely and adored wife.

For Roderick Kinnison's campaign, which had started out rough and not too clean,
became rougher and rougher, and no cleaner, as it went along. Morgan and his crew
were swinging from the heels, with everything and anything they could dig up or invent,
however little of truth or even of plausibility it might contain, and Rod the Rock had never
held even in principle with the gentle precept of turning the other cheek. He was rather an
Old Testamentarian, and he was no neophyte at dirty fighting. As a young operative,
skilled in the punishing, maiming techniques of hand-to-hand rough-and-tumble combat,
he had brawled successfully in most of the dives of most of the solarian planets and of
most of their moons. With this background, and being ,a quick study, and under the
masterly coaching of Virgil Samms, Nels Bergenholm, and Rularion of North Polar
Jupiter, it did not take him long to learn the various gambits and ripostes of this non-
physical, but nevertheless no-holds-barred, political mayhem.
     And the "boys and girls" of the Patrol worked like badgers, digging up an item
here and a fact there and a bit of in formation somewhere else, all for the day of
reckoning which was to come. They used ultra-wave scanners, spy-rays, long eyes,
stool-pigeons-everything they could think of to use and they could not always be blocked
out or evaded.
     "We've got it, boss-now let's use it!"
     "No. Save it! Nail it down, solid! Get the facts -- names, dates, places, and
amounts. Prove it first -- then save it!"
     Prove it! Save it! The joint injunction was used so often that it came to be a slogan
and was accepted as such. Unlike most slogans, however, it was carefully and diligently
put to use. The operatives proved it and saved it, over and over, over and over again; by
dint of what unsparing effort and selfless devotion only they themselves ever fully knew.
     Kinnison stumped the Continent. He visited every state, all of the big cities, most
of the towns, and many villages and hamlets; and always, wherever he went, a part of
the show was to demonstrate to his audiences how the Lens worked.
     "Look at me. You know that no two individuals are or ever can be alike. Robert
Johnson is not like Fred Smith; Joe Jones is entirely different from John Brown. Look at
me again. Concentrate upon whatever it is in your mind that makes me Roderick
Kinnison, the individual. That will enable each of you to get into as close touch with me as
though our two minds were one. I am not talking now; you are reading my mind. Since
you are reading my very mind, you know exactly what I am really thinking, for better or
for worse. It is impossible for my mind to lie to yours, since I can change neither the
basic pattern of my personality nor my basic way of thought; nor would I if I could. Being
in my mind, you know that already; you know what my basic quality is. My friends call it
strength and courage; Pirate Chief Morgan and his cut-throat crew call it many other
things. Be that as it may, you now know whether or not you want me for your President.
I can do nothing whatever to sway your opinion, for what your minds have perceived you
know to be the truth. That is the way the Lens works. It bares the depths of my mind to
yours, and in return enables me to understand your thoughts.
     "But it is in no sense hypnotism, as Morgan is so foolishly trying to make you
believe. Morgan knows as well as the rest of us do that even the most accomplished
hypnotist, with f░' all his apparatus, CAN NOT AFFECT A STRONG AND DEFINITELY
OPPOSED WILL. He is therefore saying that each and every one of you now receiving
this thought is such a spineless weakling that -- but you may draw your own conclusions.
     "In closing, remember -- nail this fact down so solidly that you will never forget it --
a sound and healthy mind CAN NOT LIE. The mouth can, and does. So does the
typewriter. But the mind -- NEVER! I can hide my thoughts from you, even while we are
en rapport, like this . . . but I CAN NOT LIE TO YOU. That is why, some day, all of your
highest executives will have to be Lensmen, and not politicians, diplomats, crooks and
boodlers. I thank you."
     As that long, bitter, incredibly vicious campaign neared its vitriolic end tension
mounted higher and ever higher: and in a room in the Samms home three young Lensmen
and a red-haired girl were not at ease. All four were lean and drawn. Jack Kinnison was
talking.
     " . . . not the party, so much, but Dad. He started out with bare fists, and now he's
wading into 'em with spiked brass knuckles."
     "You can play that across the board," Costigan agreed.
     "He's really giving 'em hell," Northrop said, admiringly.
     "Did you boys listen in on his Casper speech last night?"
     They hadn't; they had been too busy.
     "I could give it to you on your Lenses, but I couldn't. reproduce the tone -- the
exquisite way he lifted large pieces of hide and rubbed salt into the raw places. When he
gets excited you know he can't help but use voice, too, so I got some of it on a record.
He starts out on voice, nice and easy, as usual; then goes onto his Lens without talking;
then starts yelling as well as thinking. Listen."
     "You ought to have a Lensman president. You may not believe that any Lensman
is, and as .a matter of fact must be incorruptible. That is my belief, as you can feel for
yourselves, but I cannot prove it to you. Only time can do that. It is a self-evident fact,
however, which you can feel for yourselves, that a Lensman president could not lie to you
except by word of mouth or in writing. You could demand from him at any time a Lensed
statement upon any subject. Upon some matters of state he could and should refuse to
answer; but not upon any question involving moral turpitude. If he answered, you would
know the truth. If he refused to answer, you would know why and could initiate
impeachment proceedings then and there.
     "In the past there have been presidents who used that high office for low
purposes; whose very memory reeks of malfeasance and corruption. One was --
impeached, others should have been. Witherspoon never should have been elected.
Witherspoon should have been, impeached the day after he was inaugurated.
Witherspoon should be impeached now. We know, and at the Grand Rally at New York
Spaceport three weeks from tonight we are going to PROVE, that Witherspoon is simply
a minor cog-wheel in the Morgan-Towne-Isaacson machine, 'playing footsie' at command
with whatever group happens to be the highest bidder at the moment, irrespective of --
North America's or the System's good. Witherspoon is a gangster, a cheat, and a God
damn liar, but he is of very little actual importance; merely a boodling nincompoop.
Morgan is the real boss and the real menace, the Operating Engineer of the lowest-
down, lousiest, filthiest, rottenest, most corrupt machine of murderers, extortionists,
bribe-takers, panderers, perjurers, and other pimples on the `body politic that has ever
disgraced any so-called civilized government. Good night."
     "Wow!" Jack Kinnison yelped. "That's high, even for him!
     "Just a minute, Jack," Jill cautioned. "The other side, too. Listen to this choice bit
from Senator Morgan."
     "It is not exactly hypnotism, but something infinitely worse; something that steals
away your very minds; that makes anyone listening believe that white is yellow, red,
purple, or pea-green. Until our scientists have checked this menace, until we have every
wearer of that cursed Lens behind steel bars, I advise you in all earnestness not to listen
to them at all. If you do listen your minds will surely be insidiously decomposed and
broken; you will surely end your days gibbering in a padded cell.
     "And murders? Murders! The feeble remnants of the gangs which our government
has all but wiped out may perhaps commit a murder or so per year; the perpetrators of
which are caught, tried, and punished. But how many of your sons and daughters has
Roderick Kinnison murdered, either personally or through his uniformed slaves? Think!
Read the record! Then make him explain, if he can; but do not listen to his lying, mind-
destroying Lens.
     "Democracy? Bah! What does `Rod the Rock' Kinnison û the hardest, most
vicious tyrant, the most relentless and pitiless martinet ever known to any Armed Force in
the long history of our world -- know of democracy? Nothing! He understands only force.
All who oppose him in anything, however small, or who seek to reason with him, die
without record or trace; and if he is not arrested, tried, and executed, all such will
continue, tracelessly and without any pretense of trial, to die.
     "But at bottom, even though he is not intelligent enough to realize it, he is merely
one more in the long parade of tools of ruthless and predatory wealth, the MONIED
POWERS. They, my friends, never sleep; they have only one God, one tenet, one creed
-- the almighty CREDIT. That is what they are after, and note how craftily, how stealthily,
they have done and are doing their grabbing. Where is your representation upon that so-
called Galactic Council? How did this criminal, this vicious, this outrageously
unconstitutional, this irresponsible, uncontrollable, and dictatorial monstrosity come into
being? How and when did you give this bloated colossus the right to establish its own
currency -- to have the immeasurable effrontery to debar the solidest currency in the
universe, the credit of North America, from interplanetary and interstellar commerce?
Their aim is clear; they intend to tax you into slavery and death. Do not forget for one
instant, my friends, that the power to tax is the power to destroy. THE POWER TO TAX
IS THE POWER TO DESTROY. Our forefathers fought and bled and died to establish
the principle that taxation without rep . . ."
     "And so on, for one solid hour!" Jill snarled, as she snapped the switch viciously.
"How do you like them potatoes?"
     "Hell's-Blazing-Pinnacles!" This from Jack, silent for seconds, and:
     "Rugged stuff . . . very, very rugged," from Northrop. "No wonder you look sort of
pooped, Spud. Being Chief Bodyguard must have developed recently into quite a chore."
     "You ain't just snapping your choppers, hub," was Costigan's grimly flippant reply.
"I've yelled for help--in force."
     "So have I, and I'm going to yell again, right now," Jack declared. "I don't know
whether Dad is going to kill Morgan or not -- and don't give a damn û but if Morgan isn't
going all out to kill Dad it's because they've forgotten how to make bombs."
     He Lensed a call to Bergenholm.
     "Yes, Jack? . . . I will refer you to Rularion, who has had this matter under
consideration."
     "Yes, John Kinnison, I have considered the matter and have taken action," the
Jovian's calmly assured thought rolled into the minds of all, even Lensless Jill's. "The
point, youth, was well taken. It was your thought that some thousands û perhaps five---of
spy-ray operators and other operatives will be required to insure that the Grand Rally will
not be marred by episodes of violence."
     "It was," Jack said, flatly. "It still is."
     "Not having considered all possible contingencies nor the extent of the field of
necessary action, you err. The number will approach nineteen tHOUSAND very nearly.
Admiral Clayton has been so advised and his staff is now at work upon a plan of action in
accordance with my recommendation. Your suggestions, Conway Costigan, in the matter
of immediate protection of Roderick Kinnison's person, are now in effect, and you are
hereby relieved of that responsibility. I assume that you four wish to continue at work?"
     The Jovian's assumption was sound.
     "I suggest, then, that you confer with Admiral Clayton and fit yourselves into his
program of security. I intend to make the same suggestion to all Lensmen and other
qualified persons not engaged in work of more pressing importance."
     Rularion cut off and Jack scowled blackly. "The Grand Rally is going to be held
three weeks before election day. I still don't like it. I'd save it until the night before
election û knock their teeth out with it at the last possible minute."
     "You're wrong, Jack; the Chief is right," Costigan argued. "Two ways. One, we
can't play that kind of ball. Two, this gives them just enough rope to hang themselves."
     "Well . . . maybe." Kinnison -- like, Jack was fat` from being convinced. "But that's
the way it's going to be, so let's call Clayton."
     "First," Costigan broke in. "Jill, will you please explain why they have to waste as
big a man as Kinnison on such a piffling job as president? I was out in the sticks, you
know  -- it doesn't make sense."
     "Because he's the only man alive who can lick Morgan's machine at the polls," Jill
stated a simple fact. "The Patrol can get along without him for one term, after that it
won't make any difference."
     "But Morgan works from the side-lines. Why couldn't he?"
     "The psychology is entirely different. Morgan is a boss. Pops Kinnison isn't. He's a
leader. See?"
     "Oh . . . I guess so . . . Yes. Go ahead."

                         *     *     *

Outwardly, New York Spaceport did not change appreciably. At any given moment of
day or night there were so many hundreds of persons strolling aimlessly or walking
purposefully about that an extra hundred or so made no perceptible difference. And the
spaceport was only the end-point. The Patrol's activities began hundreds or thousands or
Millions or billions of miles away from Earth's metropolis.
     A web was set up through which not even a grain-of-sand meteorite could pass
undetected. Every space-ship bound for Earth carried at least one passenger who would
not otherwise have been aboard; passengers who, if not wearing Lenses, carried
Service Special equipment amply sufficient for the work in hand. Geigers and other vastly
more complicated mechanisms flew toward Earth from every direction in space;
streamed toward New York in Earth's every channel of traffic. Every train and plane,
every bus and boat and car, every conveyance of every kind and every pedestrian
approaching New York City was searched; with a search as thorough as it was
unobtrusive. And every thing and every entity approaching New York Spaceport was
combed, literally by the cubic millimeter.
     No arrests were made. No package was confiscated, or even disturbed,
throughout the ranks of public check boxes, in private offices, or in elaborate or casual
hiding-places. As far as the enemy knew, the Patrol had no suspicion whatever that
anything out of the ordinary was going on. That is, until the last possible minute. Then a
tall, lean, space-tanned veteran spoke softly aloud, as though to himself:
     "Spy-ray blocks-interference-umbrella-on. Report."
     That voice, low and soft as it was, was picked up by every Service Special
receiver within a radius of a thousand miles, and by every Lensman listening, wherever
he might be. So were, in a matter of seconds, the replies.
     "Spy-ray blocks on, sir."
     "Interference on, sir."
     "Umbrella on, sir."
     No spy-ray could be driven into any part of the tremendous port. No beam,
communicator or detonating, could operate anywhere near it. The enemy would now
know that something had gone wrong, but he would not be able to do anything about it.
     "Reports received," the tanned man said, still quietly. "Operation Zunk will proceed
as scheduled."
     And four hundred seventy one highly skilled men, carrying duplicate keys and/or
whatever other specialized apparatus and equipment would be necessary, quietly took
possession of four hundred seventy one objects, of almost that many shapes and sizes.
And, out in the gathering crowd, a few disturbances occurred and a few ambulances
dashed busily here and there. Some women had fainted, no doubt, ran the report. They
always did.
     And Conway Costigan, who had been watching, without seeming even to look at
him, a porter loading a truck with opulent-looking hand-luggage from a locker, followed
man and truck out into the concourse. Closing up, he asked:
     "Where are you taking that baggage, Charley?"
     "Up Ramp One, boss," came the unflurried reply. "Flight Ninety will be late taking
off, on accounts this jamboree, and they want it right up there handy."
     "Take it down to the . . ."
     Over the years a good many men had tried to catch Conway Costigan off guard
or napping, to beat him to the punch or to the draw -- with a startlingly uniform lack of
success. The Lensman's fist traveled a bare seven inches: the supposed porter gasped
once and traveled -- or rather, staggered backward -- approximately seven feet before
he collapsed and sprawled unconscious upon the pavement.
     "Decontamination," Costigan remarked, apparently to empty air, as he picked the
fellow up and draped him limply over the truckful of suitcases. "Deke. Front and center.
Area forty-six. Class Eff-ex-hotter than the middle tailrace of hell."
     "You called Deke?" A man came running up. "Eff-ex six-nineteen. This it?"
     "Check. It's yours, porter and all. Take it away."
     Costigan strolled on until he met Jack Kinnison, who had a rapidly-developing
mouse under his left eye.
     "How did that happen, Jack?" he demanded sharply. "Something slip?"
     "Not exactly." Kinnison grimed ruefully. "I have the damndest luck! A woman -- an
old lady at that -- thought I was staging a hold-up and swung on me with her hand-bag --
southpaw and from the rear. And if you laugh, you untuneful harp, I'll hang one right on
the end of your chin, so help me!"
     "Far be it from such," Costigan assured him, and did not-quite-laugh. "Wonder
how we came out? They should have reported before this -- p-s-s-t! Here it comes!"
     Decontamination was complete; Operation Zunk had been a one-hundred-percent
success; there had been no casualties.
     "Except for one black eye," Costigan could not help adding; but his Lens and his
Service Specials were off. Jack would have brained him if any of them had been on.
     Linking arms, the two young Lensmen strode away toward Ramp Four, which was
to be their station.
     This was the largest crowd Earth had ever known. Everybody, particularly the
Nationalists, had wondered why this climactic political rally had been set for three full
weeks ahead of the election, but their curiosity had not been satisfied. Furthermore, this
meeting had been advertised as no previous one had ever been; neither pains nor cash
had been spared in giving it the greatest build-up ever known. Not only had every channel
of communication been loaded for weeks, but also Samms' workers had been very busily
engaged in starting rumors; which grew, as rumors do, into things which their own
fathers and mothers could not recognize. And the baffled Nationalists, trying to play the
whole thing down, made matters worse. Interest spread from North America to the other
continents, to the other planets, and to the other solar systems.
     Thus, to say that everybody was interested in, and was listening to, the
Cosmocrats' Grand Rally would not be too serious an exaggeration.
     Roderick Kinnison stepped up to the battery of microphones; certain screens were
cut.
     "Fellow entities of Civilization and others: while it may seem strange to broadcast
a political rally to other continents and to beam it to other worlds, it was necessary in this
case. The message to be given, while it will go into the political affairs of the North
American Continent of Tellus, will deal primarily with a far larger thing; a matter which will
be of paramount importance to all intelligent beings of every inhabited world. You know
how to attune your minds to mine. Do it now."
     He staggered mentally under the shock of encountering practically simultaneously
so many minds, but rallied strongly and went on, via Lens:
     "My first message is not to you, my fellow Cosmocrats, nor to you, my fellow
dwellers on Earth, nor even to you, my fellow adherents to Civilization; but to THE
ENEMY. I do not mean my political opponents, the Nationalists, who are almost all loyal
fellow North Americans. I mean the entities who are using the leaders of that Nationalist
party as pawns in a vastly larger game:
     "I know, ENEMY, that you are listening. I know that you had goon squads in this
audience, to kill me and my superior officer. Know now that they are impotent. I know
that you had atomic bombs, with which to obliterate this
     assemblage and this entire area. They have been disassembled and stored. I
know that you had large supplies of radioactive dusts. They now lie in the Patrol vaults
near Weehauken. All the devices which you intended to employ are known, and all save
one have been either nullified or confiscated.
     "Mat one exception is your war-fleet, a force sufficient in your opinion to wipe out
all the Armed Forces of the Galactic Patrol. You intended to use it in case we
Cosmocrats win-this forthcoming election; you may decide to use it now. Do so ò if you
like; you can do nothing to interrupt or to affect this meeting. This is all I have to say to
you, Enemy of Civilization.
     "Now to you; my legitimate audience. I am not here to deliver the address
promised you, but merely to introduce the real speaker -- First Lensman Virgil Samms . .
."
     A mental gasp, millions strong, made itself tellingly felt.
     " . . Yes -- First Lensman Samms, of whom you all know. He has not been
attending political meetings because we, his advisers, would not let him. Why? Here are
the facts. Through Archibald Isaacson, of Interstellar Spaceways, he was offered a bribe
which would in a few years have amounted to some fifty billion credits; more wealth than
any individual entity has ever possessed. Then there was an attempt at murder, which
we were able -- just barely -- to block. Knowing there was no other place on Earth where
he would be safe, we took him to The Hill. You know what happened; you know what
condition The Hill is in now. This warfare was ascribed to pirates.
     "Me whole stupendous operation, however, was made in a vain attempt to kill one
man -- Virgil Samms. The, Enemy knew, and we learned, that Samms is the greatest
man who has ever lived. His name will last as long as Civilization endures, for it is he, and
only he, who can make it possible for Civilization to endure.
     "Why was I not killed? Why was I allowed to keep on making campaign
speeches? Because I do not count. I am of no more importance to the cause of
Civilization than is my opponent Witherspoon to that of the Enemy.
     "I am a wheel-horse, a plugger. You all know me -- `Rocky Rod' Kinnison, the
hard-boiled egg. I've got guts enough to stand up and fight for what I know is right. I've
got the guts and the inclination to stand up and slug it out, toe to toe, with man, beast, or
devil. I would make and WILL MAKE a good president; I've got the guts and inclination to
keep on slugging after you elect me; before God I promise to smash down every
machine-made crook who tries to hold any part of our government down in the reeking
muck in which it now is.
     "I am a plugger and a slugger, with no spark of -the terrific flame of inspirational
genius which makes Virgil Samms what he so uniquely is. My kind may be important, but
I individually am not. There are so many of us! If they had killed me another slugger
would have taken my place and the effect upon the job would have been nil.
     "Virgil Samms, however, can not be replaced and the Enemy knows it. He is
unique in all history. No one else can do his job. If he is killed before the principles for
which be is working are firmly established Civilization will collapse back into barbarism. It
will not recover until another such mind comes into existence, the probability of which
occurrence I will let you compute for yourselves.
     "For those reasons Virgil Samms is not here in person. Nor is he in The Hill, since
the Enemy may now possess weapons powerful enough to destroy not only that hitherto
impregnable fortress, but also the whole Earth. And they would destroy Earth, without a
qualm, if in so doing they could kill the First Lensman.
     "'Therefore Samms is now out in deep space. Our fleet is waiting to be attacked.
If we win, the Galactic Patrol will go on. If we lose, 'we hope you shall have learned
enough so that we will not have died uselessly."
     "Die? Why should you die? You are safe on Earth!"
     "Ali, one of the goons sent that thought. If our fleet is defeated no Lensman,
anywhere, will live a week. The Enemy will see to that.
     "Mat is all from me. Stay tuned. Come in, First Lensman Virgil Samms . . . take
over, sir."
     It was psychologically impossible for Virgil Samms to use such language as
Kinnison had just employed. Nor was it either necessary or desirable that he should; the
ground bad been prepared. Therefore û coldly, impersonally, logically, tellingly -- he told
the whole terrific story. He revealed the most important things dug up by the Patrols'
indefatigable investigators, reciting names, places, dates, transactions, and amounts.
Only in the last couple of minutes did he warm up at all.
     "Nor is this in any sense a smear campaign or a bringing of baseless charges to
becloud the issue or to vilify without cause and upon the very eve of election a political
opponent.
     These are facts. Formal charges are now being preferred; every person
mentioned, and many others, will be put under arrest as soon as possible. If any one of
them were in any degree innocent our case against him could be made to fall in less than
the three weeks intervening before election day. That is why this meeting is being held at
this time.
     "Not one of them is innocent. Being guilty, and knowing that we can and will prove
guilt, they will adopt a policy of delay and recrimination. Since our courts are, for the
most part, just, the accused will be able to delay the trials and the actual presentation of
evidence until after election day. Forewarned, however, you will know exactly why the
trials will have been delayed, and in spite of the fog of misrepresentation you will know
where the truth lies. You will know how to cast your votes. You will vote for Roderick
Kinnison and for those who support him.
     "There is no need for me to enlarge upon the character of Port Admiral Kinnison.
You know him as well as I do. Honest, incorruptible, fearless, you know that he will make
the best president we have ever had. If you do not already know it, ask any one of the
hundreds of thousands of strong, able, clear-thinking young men and women who have
served under him in our Armed Forces.
     "I thank you, everyone who has listened, for your interest."

     CHAPTER 19

As Long as they were commodores, Clayton of North America and Schweikert of Europe
had stayed fairly close to the home planet except for infrequent vacation trips. With the
formation of the Galactic Patrol, however, and their becoming Admiral and Lieutenant-
Admiral of the First Galactic Region, and their acquisition of Lenses, the radius of their
sphere of action was tremendously increased. One or the other of them was always to
be found in Grand Fleet Headquarters at New York Spaceport, but only very seldom
were both of them there at once. And if the absentee were not to be found on Earth,
what of it? The First Galactic Region included all of the solar systems and all of the
planets adherent to Civilization, and the absentee could, as a matter of business and
duty, be practically anywhere.
     Usually, however, he was not upon any of the generally known planets, but upon
Bennett -- getting acquainted with the officers, supervising the drilling of Grand Fleet in
new maneuvers, teaching classes in advanced strategy, and holding skull-practice
generally. It was hard work, and not too inspiring, but in the end it paid off big. They
knew their men; their men knew them. They could work together with a snap, a
smoothness, a precision otherwise impossible; for imported top brass, unknown to and
unacquainted with the body of command, can not have and does not expect the deep
regard and the earned respect so necessary to high morale.
     Clayton and Schweikert had both. They started early enough, worked hard
enough, and had enough stuff, to earn both. Thus it came about that when, upon a
scheduled day, the two admirals came to Bennett together, they were greeted as
enthusiastically as though they had been Bennettans born and bred; and their welcome
became a planet-wide celebration when Clayton issued the orders which all Bennett had
been waiting so long and so impatiently to hear. Bennettans were at last to leave
Bennett!
     Group after group, sub-fleet after sub-fleet, the component units of the Galactic
Patrol's Grand Fleet took off. They assembled in space; they maneuvered enough to
shake themselves down into some semblance of unity; they practiced the new
maneuvers; they blasted off in formation for Sol. And as the tremendous armada neared
the Solar System it met -- or, rather, was joined by -- the Patrol ships about which
Morgan and his minions already knew; each of which fitted itself into its long-assigned
place. Every planet of Civilization had sent its every vessel capable of putting out a
screen or of throwing a beam, but so immense was the number of warships in Grand
Fleet that this increment, great as it intrinsically was, made no perceptible difference in
its size.
     On Rally Day Grand Fleet lay poised near Earth. As soon as he had introduced
Samms to the intensely interested listeners at the Rally, Roderick Kinnison disappeared.
Actually, he drove a bug to a distant corner of the spaceport and left the Earth in a light
cruiser, but to all intents and purposes, so engrossed was everyone in what Samms was
saying, Kinnison simply vanished. Samms was already in the Boise; the Port Admiral
went out to his old flagship, the Chicago. Nor, in case any observer of the Enemy should
be trying to keep track of him, could his course be traced. Cleveland and Northrop and
Rularion and all they needed of the vast resources of the Patrol saw to that.
     Neither Samms nor Kinnison had any business being with Grand Fleet in person,
of course, and both knew it; but everyone knew why they were there and were glad that
the two top Lensmen had decided to live or die with their Fleet. If Grand Fleet won, they
would probably live; if Grand Fleet lost they would certainly die -- if not in the pyrotechnic
dissolution of their ships, then in a matter of days upon the ground. With the Fleet their
presence would contribute markedly to morale. It was a chance very much worth taking.
     Nor were Clayton and Schweikert together, or even near each other. Samms,
Kinnison, and the two admirals were as far away from each other as they could, get and
still remain in Grand Fleet's fighting .cylinder.
     Cylinder? Yes. The Patrol's Board of Strategy, assuming that the enemy would
attack in conventional cone formation and knowing that one cone could defeat another
only after a long and costly engagement, bad long since spent months and months at
war-games in their tactical tanks, in search of a better formation. They had found it.
Theoretically, a cylinder of proper composition could defeat, with negligible loss and in a
very short time, the best cones they were able to devise. The drawback was that the
ships composing a theoretically efficient cylinder would have to be highly specialized and
vastly greater in number than any one power had ever been able to put into the ether.
However, with all the resources of Bennett devoted to construction, this difficulty would
not be insuperable.
     This, of course, brought up the question of what would happen if cylinder met
cylinder -- if the Black strategists should also have arrived at the same solution -- and
this question remained unanswered. Or, rather, there were too many answers, no two of
which agreed; like those to the classical one of what would happen if an irresistible force
should strike an immovable object. There would be a lot of intensely interesting by-
products!
     Even Rularion of Jove did not come up with a definite solution. Nor did
Bergenholm; who, although a comparatively obscure young Lensman-scientist -- and not
a member of the Galactic Council, was frequently called into consultation because of his
unique ability to arrive at correct conclusions via some obscurely short-circuiting process
of thought.
     "Well," Port Admiral Kinnison had concluded, finally, "If they've got one, too, we'll
just have to shorten ours up, widen it out, and pray."
     "Clayton to Port Admiral Kinnison," came a communication through channels.
"Have you any additional orders or instructions?"
     "Kinnison to Admiral Clayton. None," the Port Admiral replied, as formally, then
went on via Lens: "No comment or criticism to make, Alex. You fellows have done a job
so far and you'll keep on doing one. How much detection have you got out?"
     "Twelve detets -- three globes of diesels. If we sit here and do nothing the boys
will get edgy and go stale, so if you and Virge agree we'll give 'em some practice. Lord
knows they need it, and it'll keep 'em on their toes. But about the Blacks -- they may be
figuring on delaying any action until we've had time to crack from boredom. What's your
idea on that?"

"I've been worried about the same thing. Practice will help, but whether enough or not I
don't know. What do you think, Virge? Will they hold it up deliberately or strike fast?"
     "Fast," the First Lensman replied, promptly and definitely. "As soon as they
possibly can, for several reasons. They don't know our real strength, any more than we
know theirs. They undoubtedly believe, however, the same. as we do, that they are more
efficient than we are and have the larger force. By their own need of practice they will
know ours. They do not attach nearly as much importance to morale as we do; by the
very nature of their regime they can't. Also, our open challenge will tend very definitely to
force their hands, since face-saving is even more important to them than it is to us. They
will strike as soon as they can and as hard as they can."
     Grand Fleet maneuvers were begun, but in a day or so the alarms came blasting
in. The enemy had been detected; coming in, as the previous Black Fleet had come, from
the direction of Coma Berenices. Calculating machines clicked and whirred; orders were
flashed, and a brief string of numbers; ships by the hundred and the thousands flashed
into their assigned positions.
     Or, more precisely, almost into them. Most of the navigators and pilots had not
had enough practice yet to hit their assigned positions exactly on the first try, since a
radical change in axial direction was involved, but they did pretty well; a few minutes of
juggling and jockeying were enough. Clayton and Schweikert used a little caustic
language -- via Lens and to their fellow Lensmen only, of course -- but Samms and
Kinnison were well enough pleased. The time of formation had been very satisfactorily
short and the cone was smooth, symmetrical, and of beautifully uniform density.
     The preliminary formation was a cone, not a cylinder. It was not a conventional
Cone of Battle in that it was not of standard composition, was too big, and had
altogether too many ships for its size. It was, however, of the conventional shape, and it
was believed that by the time the enemy could perceive any significant differences it
would be too late for him to do anything about it. The cylinder would be forming about
that time, anyway, and it was almost believed -- at least it was strongly hoped -- that the
enemy would not have the time or the knowledge or the equipment to do anything about
that, either.
     Kinnison grinned to himself as his mind, en rapport with Clayton's, watched the
enemy's Cone of Battle enlarge upon the Admiral's conning plate. It was big, and
powerful; the Galactic Patrol's publicly-known forces would have stood exactly the
chance of the proverbial snowball in the nether regions. It was not, however, the Port
Admiral thought, big enough to form an efficient cylinder, or to handle the Patrol's real
force in any fashion -- and unless they shifted within the next second or two it would be
too late for the enemy to do anything at all.
     As though by magic about ninety five percent of the Patrol's tremendous cone
changed into a tightly-packed double cylinder. This maneuver was much simpler than the
previous one, and had been practiced to perfection. The mouth of the cone closed in and
lengthened; the closed end opened out and shortened. Tractors and pressors leaped
from ship to ship, binding the whole myriad of hitherto discrete units into a single
structure as solid, even comparatively as to size, as a cantilever bridge. And instead of
remaining quiescent, waiting to be attacked, the cylinder flashed forward, inertialess, at
maximum blast.
     Throughout the years the violence, intensity, and sheer brute power of offensive
weapons had increased steadily. Defensive armament had kept step. One fundamental
fact, however, had not changed throughout the ages and has not changed yet. Three or
more units of given power have always been able to conquer one unit of the same
power, if engagement could be forced and no assistance could be given; and two units
could practically always do so. Fundamentally, therefore, strategy always has been and
still is the development of new artifices and techniques by virtue of which two or more of
our units may attack one of theirs; the while affording the minimum of opportunity for
them to retaliate in kind.
     The Patrol's Grand Fleet flashed forward, almost exactly along the axis of the
Black cone; right where the enemy wanted it -- or so he thought. Straight into the
yawning mouth, erupting now a blast of flame beside which the widest imaginings of
Inferno must pale into insignificance; straight along that raging axis toward the apex, at
the terrific speed of the two directly opposed velocities of flight. But, to the complete
consternation of the Black High Command, nothing much happened. For, as has been
pointed out, that cylinder was not of even approximately normal composition. In fact,
there was not a normal war-vessel in it. The outer skin and both ends of the cylinder
were purely defensive. Those vessels, packed so closely that their repellor fields actually
touched, were all screen; none of them had a beam hot enough to light a match.
Conversely, the inner layer, or "Liner", was composed of vessels that were practically all
offense. They had to be protected at every point -- but how they could ladle it out!
     The leading and trailing edges of the formation -- the ends of the gigantic pipe, --
so to speak -- would of course bear the brunt of the Black attack, and it was this factor
that had given the Patrol's strategists the most serious concern. Wherefore the first ten
and the last six double rings of ships were special indeed. They were all screen --
nothing else. They were drones, operated by remote control, carrying no living thing. If
the Patrol losses could be held to eight double rings of ships at the first pass and four at
the second -- theoretical computations indicated losses of six and two -- Samms and his
fellows would be well content.
     All of the Patrol ships had, of course, the standard equipment of so-called "violet",
"green", and "red" fields, as well as duodecaplylatomate and ordinary atomic bombs,
dirigible torpedoes and transporters, slicers, polycyclic drills, and so on; but in this battle
the principal reliance was to be placed upon the sheer, brutal, overwhelming power of
what had been called the "macro beam" -- now simply the "beam". Furthermore, in the
incredibly incandescent frenzy of the chosen field of action -- the cylinder was to attack
the cone at its very strongest part -- no conceivable material projectile could have lasted
a single microsecond after leaving the screens of force of its parent vessel. It could have
flown fast enough; ultra-beam trackers could have steered it rapidly enough and
accurately enough; but before it could have traveled a foot, even at ultra-light speed, it
would have ceased utterly to be. It would have been resolved into its sub-atomic
constituent particles and waves. Nothing material could exist, except instantaneously, in
the field of force filling the axis of the Black's Cone of Battle; a field beside which the
exact center of a multi-billion-volt flash of lightning would constitute a dead area.
     That field, however, encountered no material object. The Patrol's "screeners",
packed so closely as to have a four hundred percent overlap, had been designed to
withstand precisely that inconceivable environment. Practically all of them withstood it.
And in a fraction of a second the hollow forward end of the cylinder engulfed, pipe-wise,
the entire apex of the enemy's war-cone, and the hitherto idle "sluggers" of the cylinder's
liner went to work.
     Each of those vessels had one heavy pressor beam, each having the same push
as every other, directed inward, toward the cylinder's axis, and backward at an angle of
fifteen degrees from the perpendicular line between ship and axis. Therefore, wherever
any Black ship entered the Patrol's cylinder or however, it was driven to and held at the
axis and forced backward along that axis. None of them, however, got very far. They
were perforce in single file; one ship opposing at least one solid ring of giant sluggers
who did not have to concern themselves with defense, but could pour every iota of their
tremendous resources into offensive beams. Thus the odds were not merely two or three
to one; but never less than eighty, and very frequently over two hundred to one.
     Under the impact of those unimaginable torrents of force the screens of the
engulfed vessels flashed once, practically instantaneously through the spectrum, and
went down. Whether they had two or three or four courses made no difference -- in fact,
even the ultra-speed analyzers of the observers could not tell. Then, a couple of
microseconds later, the wall-shields -- the strongest fabrics of force developed by man
up to that time -- also failed. Then those ravenous fields of force struck bare,
unprotected metal,_ and every molecule, inorganic and organic, of ships and contets
alike, disappeared in a bursting flare of energy so raw and so violent as to stagger even
those who had brought it into existence. It was certainly vastly more than a mere
volatilization; it was deduced later that the detonating unstable isotopes of the Black's
own bombs, in the frightful temperatures already existing in the Patrol's quasi-solid
beams, had initiated a chain reaction which had resulted in the fissioning of a
considerable proportion of the atomic nuclei of usually completely stable elements!
     The cylinder stopped; the Lensmen took stock. The depth of erosion of the
leading edge had averaged almost exactly six double rings of drones. In places the sixth
ring was still intact; in others, which had encountered unusually concentrated beaming,
the seventh was gone. Also, a fraction of one percent of the manned war-vessels had
disappeared. Brief though the time of engagement had been, the enemy had been able
to concentrate enough beams to burn a few holes through the walls of the attacking
cylinder.

It had not been hoped that more than a few hundreds of Black vessels could be blown
out of the ether at this first pass. General Staff had been sure, however, that the
heaviest and most dangerous ships, including those carrying the enemy's High Command,
would be among them. The midsection of the apex of the conventional Cone of Battle had
always been the safest place to be; therefore that was where the Black admirals had
been and therefore they no longer lived.
     In a few seconds it became clear that if any Black High Command existed, it was
not in shape to function efficiently. Some of the enemy ships were still blasting, with little
or no concerted effort, at the regulation cone which the cylinder had left behind; a few
were attempting to- get into some kind of a formation, possibly to attack the Patrol's
cylinder. Indecision was visible and rampant.
     To turn that tremendous cylindrical engine of destruction around would have been
a task of hours, but it was not necessary. Instead, each vessel cut its tractors and
pressors, spun end for end, re-connected, and retraced almost exactly its previous
course; cutting out and blasting into nothingness another "plug" of Black warships.
Another reversal, another dash; and this time, so disorganized were the foes and so
feeble the beaming, not a single Patrol vessel was lost. The Black fleet, so proud and so
conquering of mien a few minutes before, had fallen completely apart.
     "That's enough, Rod, don't you think?" Samms thought then. "Please order
Clayton to cease action, so that we can hold a parley with their senior officers."
     "Parley, ME" Kinnison's answering thought was a snarl. "We've got 'em going --
mop 'em up before they can pull themselves together! Parley be damned!"
     "Beyond a certain point military action becomes indefensible butchery, of which
our Galactic Patrol will never be guilty. That point has now been reached. If you do not
agree with me, I'll be glad to call a Council meeting to decide which of us is right."
     "That isn't necessary. You're right -- that's one reason I'm not First Lensman." The
Port Admiral, fury and fire ebbing from his mind, issued orders; the Patrol forces hung
motionless in space. "As President of the Galactic Council, Virge, take over."
     Spy-rays probed and searched; a communicator beam was sent. Virgil Samms
spoke aloud, in the lingua franca of deep space.
     "Connect me, please, with the senior officer of your fleet."
     There appeared upon Samms' plate a strong, not unhandsome face; deep-
stamped with the bitter hopelessness of a strong man facing certain death.
     "You've got us. Come on and finish us."
     "Some such indoctrination was to be expected, but I anticipate no trouble in
convincing you that you have been grossly misinformed in everything you have been told
concerning us; our aims, our ethics, our morals, and our standards of conduct. There
are, I assume, other surviving officers of your rank, although of lesser seniority?"
     "There are ten other vice-admirals, but I am in command. They will obey my
orders or die."
     "Nevertheless, they shall be heard. Please go inert, match our intrinsic velocity,
and come aboard, all eleven of you. We wish to explore with all of you the possibilities of
a lasting peace between our worlds."
     "Peace? Bah! Why lie?" The Black commander's expression did not change. "I
know what you are and what you do to conquered races. We prefer a clean, quick death
in your beams to the kind you deal out in your torture rooms and experimental
laboratories. Come ahead -- I intend to attack you as soon as I can make a formation."
     "I repeat, you have been grossly, terribly, shockingly misinformed." Samms' voice
was quiet and steady; his eyes held those of the other. "We are civilized men, not
barbarians or savages. Does not the fact that we ceased hostilities so soon mean
anything to you?"
     For the first time the stranger's face changed subtly, and Samms pressed the
slight advantage.
     "I see it does. Now if you will converse with me mind to mind . . ." The First
Lensman felt for the man's ego and began to tune to it, but this was too much.
     "I will not!" The Black put up a solid block. "I will have nothing to do with your
cursed Lens. I know what it is and will have none of it!"
     "Oh, what's the use, Virge!" Kinnison snapped. "Let's get on with it!"
     "A great deal of use, Rod," Samms replied, quietly. "This is a turning-point. I must
be right -- I can't be that far wrong," and he again turned his attention to the enemy
commander.
     "Very well, sir, we will continue to use spoken language. I repeat, please come
aboard with your ten fellow vice-admirals. You will not be asked to surrender. You will
retain your side-arms -- as long as you make no attempt to use them. Whether or not we
come to any agreement, you will be allowed to return unharmed to your vessels before
the battle is resumed."
     "What? Side-arms? Returned? You swear it?"
     "As President of the Galactic Council, in the presence of the highest officers of the
Galactic Patrol as witnesses, I swear it."
     "We will come aboard."
     "Very well. I will have ten other Lensmen and officers here with me."
     The Boise, of course, inerted first; followed by the Chicago and nine of the
tremendous tear-drops from Bennett. Port Admiral Kinnison and nine other Lensmen
joined Samms in the Boise's con room; the tight formation of eleven Patrol ships blasted
in unison in the space -- courtesy of meeting the equally tight formation of Black warships
half-way in the matter of intrinsic velocity.
     Soon the two little sub-fleets were motionless in respect to each other. Eleven
Black gigs were launched. Eleven Black vice-admirals came aboard, to the
accompaniment of the full military honors customarily granted to visiting admirals of
friendly powers. Each was armed with what seemed to be an exact duplicate of the
Patrol's own current blaster; Lewiston, Mark Seventeen. In the lead strode the tall,
heavy, gray-haired man with whom Samms had been dealing; still defiant, still sullen, still
concealing sternly his sheer desperation. His block was still on, full strength.
     The man next in line was much younger than the leader, 'much less wrought up,
much more intent. Samms felt for this man's ego, tuned to it, and got the shock of his life.
This Black vice-admiral's mind was not at all what he had expected to encounter -- it
was; in every respect, of Lensman grade!
     "Oh . . . how? You are not speaking, and . . . I see . . . the Lens . . . THE LENS!"
The stranger's mind was for seconds an utterly indescribable turmoil in which relief,
gladness, and high anticipation struggled for supremacy.
     In the next few seconds, even before the visitors had reached their places at the
conference table, Virgil Samms and Corander of Petrine exchanged thoughts which
would require many thousands of words to express; only a few of which are necessary
here.
     "Me LENS . . . I have dreamed of such a thing, without hope of realization or
possibility. How we have been misled! They are, then, actually available upon your world,
Samms of Tellus?"
     "Not exactly, and not at all generally," and Samms explained as he had explained
so many times before. "You will wear one sooner than you think. -- But as to ending this
warfare. You survivors are practically all natives of your own world. Petrine?"
     "Not `practically', we are Petrinos all. The 'teachers' were all in the Center. Many
remain -- upon Petrine and its neighboring worlds, but none remain alive here."
     "Ohlanser, then, who assumed command, is also a Petrino? So hard-headed, I
had assumed otherwise. He will be a stumbling-block. Is he actually in supreme
command?"
     "Only by and with our consent, under such astounding circumstances as these. He
is a reactionary, of the old, diehard, war-dog school. He would ordinarily be in supreme
command and would be supported by the teachers if any were here; but I will challenge
his authority and theirs; standing upon my right to command my own fleet as I see fit. So
will, I think, several others. So go ahead with your meeting."
     "Be seated, Gentlemen." All saluted punctiliously and sat down. "Now, Vice-
Admiral Ohlanser . . ."
     "How do you, a stranger, know my name?"
     "I know many things. We have a suggestion to offer which, if you Petrinos will
follow it, will end this warfare. First, please believe that we have no designs upon your
planet, nor any quarrel with any of its people who are not hopelessly contaminated by the
ideas and the culture of the entities who are back of this whole movement; quite possibly
those whom you refer to as the `teachers'. You did not know whom you were to fight, or
why." This was a statement, with no hint of question about it.
     "I see now that we did not know all the truth," Ohlanser admitted, stiffly. "We
were informed, and given proof sufficient to make us believe, that you were monsters
from outer space û rapacious, insatiable, senselessly and callously destructive to all
other forms of intelligent life."
     "We suspected something of the kind. Do you others agree? Vice-Admiral
Corander?"
     "Yes. We were shown detailed and documented proofs; stereos of battles, in
which no quarter was given. We saw system after system conquered, world after world
laid waste. We were made to believe that our only hope of continued existence was to
meet you and destroy you in space; for if you were allowed to reach Petrine every man,
woman, and child on the planet would either be killed outright or tortured to death. I see
now that those proofs were entirely false; completely vicious."
     "They were. Those who spread that lying propaganda and all who support their
organization must be and shall be weeded out. Petrine must be and shall be given her
rightful place in the galactic fellowship of free, independent, and cooperative worlds. So
must any and all planets whose peoples wish to adhere to Civilization instead of to
tyranny and despotism. To further these ends, we Lensmen suggest that you re-form
your fleet and .proceed to Arisia . . ."
     "Arisia!" Ohlanser did not like the idea.
     "Arisia," Samms insisted. "Upon leaving Arisia, knowing vastly more than you do
now, you will return to your home planet, where you will take whatever steps you will
then know to be necessary."

"We were told that your Lenses are hypnotic devices," Ohlanser sneered, "designed to
steal away and destroy the minds of any who listen to you. I believe that, fully. I will not
go to Arisia, nor will any part of Petrine's Grand Fleet. I will not attack my home planet. I
will not do battle against my own people. This is final."
     "I am not saying or implying that you should. But you continue to close your mind
to reason. How about you, Vice-Admiral Corander? And you others?"
     In the momentary silence Samms put himself en rapport with the other officers,
and was overjoyed at what he learned.
     "I do not agree with Vice-Admiral Ohlanser," Corander said, flatly. "He commands,
not Grand Fleet, but his subfleet merely, as do we all. I will lead my sub-fleet to Arisia."
     "Traitor!" Ohlanser shouted. He leaped to his feet and drew his blaster, but a
tractor beam snatched it from his grasp before he could fire.
     "You were allowed to wear side-arms, not to use them," Samms said, quietly.
"How many of you others agree with Corander; how many with Ohlanser?"
     All nine voted with the younger man.
     "Very well. Ohlanser, you may either accept Corander's leadership or leave this
meeting now and take your sub-fleet directly back to Petrine. Decide now which you
prefer to do."
     "You mean you aren't going to kill me, even now? Or even degrade me, or put me
under arrest?"
     "I mean exactly that. What is your decision?"
     "In that case . . . I was -- must have been -- wrong. I will follow Corander."
     "A wise choice. Corander, you already know what to expect; except that four or
five other Petrinos now in this room will help you, not only in deciding what must be done
upon Petrine, but also in the doing of it. This meeting will adjourn."
     "But . . . no reprisals?" Corander, in spite of his newly acquired knowledge, was
dubious, almost dumbfounded. "No invasion or occupation? No indemnities to your Patrol,
or reparations? No punishment of us, our men, or our families?"
     "None."
     "That does not square up even with ordinary military usage -- "
     "I know it. It does conform, however, to the policy of the Galactic Patrol which is
to spread throughout our island universe."
     "You are not even sending your fleet, or heavy units of it, with us, to see to it that
we follow your instructions?"
     "It is not necessary. If you need any form of help you will inform us of your
requirements via Lens, as I am conversing with you now, and whatever you want will be
supplied. However, I do not expect any such call. You and your fellows are capable of
handling the situation. You will soon know the truth, and know that you know it; and when
your housecleaning is done we will consider your application for representation upon the
Galactic Council. Goodbye."
     Thus the Lensmen -- particularly First Lensman Virgil Samms -- brought another
sector of the galaxy under the aegis of Civilization.

     CHAPTER 20

After the rally there were a few days during which neither Samms nor Kinnison was on
Earth. That the Cosmocrats' presidential candidate and the First Lensman were both with
the Fleet was not a secret; in fact, it was advertised. Everyone was told why they were
out there, and almost everyone approved.
     Nor was their absence felt. Developments, fast and terrific, were slammed home.
Cosmocratic spellbinders in every state of North America waved the flag, pointed with
pride, and viewed with alarm, in the very best tradition of North American politics. But
above all, there appeared upon every news-stand and in every book-shop of the
Continent, at opening time of the day following Rally Day, a book of over eighteen
hundred pages of fine print; a book the publication of which had given Samms himself no
little concern.
     "But I'm afraid of it!" he had protested. "We know it's true; but there's material on
almost every page for the biggest libel and slander suits in history!"
     "I know it," the bald and paunchy Lensman-attorney had replied. "Fully. I hope
they do take action against us, but I'm absolutely certain they won't."
     "You hope they do?"
     "Yes. If they take the initiative they can't prevent us from presenting our evidence
in full; and there is no court in existence, however corrupt, before which we could not win.
What they want and must have is delay; avoidance of any issue until after the election."
     "I see." Samms was convinced.
     The location of the Patrol's Grand Fleet had been concealed from all inhabitants of
the Solarian system, friends and foes alike; but the climactic battle -- liberating as it did
energies sufficient to distort the very warp and woof of the fabric of space itself -- could
not be hidden or denied, or even belittled. It was not, however, advertised or blazoned
abroad. Then as now the newshawks wanted to know, instantly and via long-range
communicators, vastly more than those responsible for security cared to tell; then as now
the latter said as little as it was humanly possible to say.
     Everyone knew that the Patrol had won a magnificent victory; but nobody knew
who or what the enemy had been. Since the rank and file knew it, everyone knew that
only a fraction of the Black fleet had actually been destroyed; but nobody knew where
the remaining vessels went or what they did. Everyone knew that about ninety five
percent of the Patrol's astonishingly huge Grand Fleet had come from, and was on its
way back to, the planet Bennett, and knew -- since Bennettans would in a few weeks be
scampering gaily all over space -- in general what Bennett was; but nobody knew why it
was.
     Thus, when the North American Contingent landed at New York Spaceport,
everyone whom the newsmen could reach was literally mobbed. However, in accordance
with the aphorism ascribed to the wise old owl, those who knew the least said the most.
But the Telenews ace who had once interviewed both Kinnison and Samms wasted no
time upon small fry. He insisted on seeing the two top Lensmen, and kept on insisting
until he did see them.
     "Nothing to say," Kinnison said curtly, leaving no doubt whatever that he meant it.
"All talking -- if any -- will be done by First Lensman Samms."
     "Now, all you millions of Telenews listeners, I am interviewing First Lensman
Samms himself. A little closer to the mike, please, First Lensman. Now, sir, what
everybody wants to know is -- who are the Blacks?"
     "I don't know."
     "You don't know? On the Lens, sir?"
     "On the Lens. I still don't know."
     "I see. But you have suspicions or ideas? You can guess?"
     "I can guess; but that's all it would be -- a guess."
     "And my guess, folks, is that his guess would be a very highly informed guess. Will
you tell the public, First Lensman Samms, what your guess is?"
     "I will." If this reply astonished the newshawk, it staggered Kinnison and the others
who knew Samms best. It was, however, a coldly calculated political move. "While it will
probably be several weeks before we can furnish detailed and unassailable proof, it is
my considered opinion that the Black fleet was built and controlled by the 'Morgan-
Towne-Isaacson machine. That they, all unknown to any of us, enticed, corrupted, and
seduced a world, or several worlds, to their program of domination and enslavement.
That they intended by armed force to take over the Continent of North America and
through it the whole earth and all the other planets adherent to Civilization. That they
intended to hunt down and kill every Lensman, and -- to subvert the Galactic Council to
their own ends. This is what you wanted?"
     "That's fine, sir -- just what we wanted. But just one more thing, sir." The
newsman had obtained infinitely more than he had expected to get; yet, good
newsmanlike, he wanted more. "Just a word, if you will, Mr. Samms, as to these trials
and the White Book?"
     "I can add very little, I'm afraid, to what I have already said and what is in the
book; and that little can be classed as 'I told you so'. We are trying, and will continue to
try, to force those criminals to trial; to break up, to prohibit, an unending series of hair-
splitting delays. We want, . and are determined to get, legal action; to make each of
those we have accused defend himself in court and under oath. Morgan and his crew,
however, are working desperately to avoid any action at all, because they know that we
can and will prove every allegation we have made."
     The Telenews ace signed off, Samms and Kinnison went to their respective
offices, and Cosmocratic orators throughout the nation held a field-day. They glowed and
scintillated with triumph. They yelled themselves hoarse, leather-lunged tub-thumpers
though they were, in pointing out the unsullied purity, the spotless perfection of their own
party and its every candidate for office; in shuddering revulsion at the never-to-be-
sufficiently-condemned, proved and demonstrated villainy and blackguardy of the
opposition.
     And the Nationalists, although they had been dealt a terrific and entirely
unexpected blow, worked near-miracles of politics with what they had. Morgan and his
minions ranted and raved. They were being jobbed. They were being crucified by the
Monied Powers. All those allegations and charges were sheerest fabrications -- false,
utterly vicious, containing nothing whatever of truth. They, not the Patrol, were trying to
force a show-down; to vindicate themselves and to confute those unspeakably
unscrupulous Lensmen before Election Day. And they were succeeding! Why, otherwise,
had not a single one of the thousands of accused even been arrested? Ask that lying
First Lensman, Virgil Samms! Ask that rock-hearted, iron-headed, conscienceless
murderer, Roderick Kinnison! But do not, at peril of your sanity, submit your minds to
their Lenses!
     And why, the reader asks, were not at least some of those named persons
arrested before Election Day? And your historian must answer frankly that he does not
know. He is not a lawyer. It would be of interest -- to some few of us -- to follow in detail
at least one of those days of legal battling in one of the high courts of the land; to quote
verbatim at least a few of the many thousands of pages of transcript: but to most of us
the technicalities involved would be boring in the extreme.
     But couldn't the voters tell easily enough which side was on the offensive and
which on the defensive? Which pressed for action and which insisted on postponement
and delay? They could have, easily enough, if they had cared enough about the basic
issues involved to make the necessary mental effort, but almost everyone was too busy
doing something else. And it was so much easier to take somebody else's word for it.
And finally, thinking is an exercise to which all too few brains are accustomed.
     But Morgan neither ranted nor raved nor blustered when he sat in conference with
his faintly-blue superior, who had come storming in as soon as he had learned of the
crushing defeat of the Black fleet. The Kalonian was very highly concerned; so much so
that the undertone of his peculiar complexion was turning slowly to a delicate shade of
green.
     "How did that happen? How could it happen? Why was I not informed of the
Patrol's real power -- how could you be guilty of such stupidity? Now I'll have to report to
Scrwan of the Eich. He's pure, undiluted poison -- and if word of this catastrophe ever
gets up to Ploor . . . ! ! !"
     "Come down out of the stratosphere, Fernald," Morgan countered, bitingly. "Don't
try to make me the goat -- I won't sit still for it. It happened because they could build a
bigger fleet than we could. You were in on that -- all of it. You knew what we were
doing, and approved it -- all of it. You were as badly fooled as I was. You were not
informed because I could find out nothing -- I could learn no more of their Bennett than
they could of our Petrine. As to reporting, you will of course do as you please; but I
would advise you not to cry too much before you're really hurt. This battle isn't over yet,
my friend."
     The Kalonian had been a badly shaken entity; it was a measure of his state of
mind that he did not liquidate the temerarious Tellurian then and there. But since Morgan
was as undisturbed as ever, and as sure of himself, he began to regain his wonted
aplomb. His color became again its normal pale blue.
     "I will forgive your insubordination this time, since there were no witnesses, but
use no more such language to me," he said, stiffly. "I fail to perceive any basis for your
optimism. The only chance now remaining is for you to win the election, and how can you
do that? You are -- must be -- losing ground steadily and rapidly."
     "Not as much as you might think." Morgan pulled down a large, carefully-drawn
chart. "This line represents the hidebound Nationalists, whom nothing we can do will
alienate from the party; this one the equally hide-bound Cosmocrats. The balance of
power lies, as always, with the independents -- these here. And many of them are not as
independent as is supposed. We can buy or bring pressure to bear on half of them -- that
cuts them down to this size here. So, no matter what the Patrol does, it can affect only
this relatively small block here, and it is this block we are fighting for. We are losing a
little ground, and steadily, yes; since we can't conceal from anybody with half a brain the
fact that we're doing our best to keep the cases from ever coming to trial. But here's the
actual observed line of sentiment, as determined from psychological indices up to
yesterday; here is the extrapolation of that line to Election Day. It forecasts us to get just
under forty nine percent of the total vote."
     "And is there anything cheerful about that?" Fernald asked frostily.
     "I'll say there is!" Morgan's big face assumed a sneering smile, an expression
never seen by any voter. "This chart deals only with living, legally registered, bona-fide
voters. Now if we can come that close to winning an absolutely honest election, how do
you figure we can possibly lose the kind this one is going to be? We're in power, you
know. We've got this machine and we know how to use it."
     "Oh, yes, I remember -- vaguely. You told me about North American politics once,
a few years ago. Dead men, ringers, repeaters, ballot-box stuffing, and so on, you
said?"
     "'And so on' is right, Chief!" Morgan assured him, heartily. "Everything goes, this
time. It'll be one of the biggest landslides in North American history."
     "I will, then, defer any action until after the election."
     "That will be the smart thing to do, Chief; then you won't have to take' any, or
make any report at all," and upon this highly satisfactory note the conference closed.
     And Morgan was actually as confident as he had appeared.
     His charts were actual and factual. He knew the power of money and the
effectiveness of pressure; be knew the capabilities of the various units of his machine. He
did not, however, know two things: Jill Samms' insidious, deeply-hidden Voters'
Protective League and the bright flame of loyalty pervading the Galactic Patrol. Thus,
between times of bellowing and screaming his carefully-prepared, rabble-rousing
speeches, he watched calmly and contentedly the devious workings of his smooth and
efficient organization.
     Until the day before election, that is. Then hordes of young men and young women
went suddenly and briefly to work; at least four in every precinct of the entire nation.
They visited, it seemed, every residence and every dwelling unit, everywhere. They
asked questions, and took notes, and vanished; and the machine's operatives, after the
alarm was given, could not find man or girl or notebook. And the Galactic Patrol, which
had never before paid any attention to elections, had given leave and ample time to its
every North American citizen. Vessels of the North American Contingent were grounded
and practically emptied of personnel; bases and stations were depopulated; and even
from every distant world every Patrolman registered in any North American precinct
came to spend the day at home.
     Morgan began then to worry, but there was nothing he could do about the
situation -- or was there? If the civilian boys and girls were checking the registration
books -- and they were -- it was as legally -- appointed' checkers. If the uniformed boys
and girls were all coming home to vote -- and they were -- that, too, was their inalienable
right. But boys and girls were notoriously prone to accident and to debauchery . . . but
again Morgan was surprised; and, this time, taken heavily aback. The web which had
protected Grand Rally so efficiently, but greatly enlarged now, was functioning again;
and Morgan and his minions spent a sleepless and thoroughly uncomfortable night.
     Election Day dawned clear, bright, and cool; auguring a record turn-out. Voting
was early and extraordinarily heavy; the polls were crowded. There was, however, very
little disorder. Surprisingly little, in view of the fact that the Cosmocratic watchers,
instead of being the venal wights of custom, were cold-eyed, unreachable men and
women who seemed to know by sight every voter in the precinct. At least they spotted
on sight and challenged without hesitation every ringer, every dead one, every repeater,
and every imposter who claimed the right to vote. And those challenges, being borne out
in every case by the carefully-checked registration lists, were in every case upheld.
     Not all of the policemen on duty, especially in the big cities, were above suspicion,
of course. But whenever any one of those officers began to show a willingness to play
ball with the machine a calm, quiet-eyed Patrolman would remark, casually:
     "Better see that this election stays straight, bud, and strictly according to the lists
and signatures -- or you're apt to find yourself listed in the big book along with the rest of
the rats."
     It was not that the machine liked the way things were going, or that it did not have
goon squads on the job. It was that there were, everywhere and always, more
Patrolmen than there were goons. And those Patrolmen, however young in years some
of them might have appeared to be, were spacebronzed veterans, space-hardened
fighting men, armed with the last word in blasters -- Lewiston, Mark Seventeen.
     To the boy's friends and neighbors, of course, his Lewiston was practically
invisible. It was merely an article of clothing, the same as his pants. It carried no more of
significance, of threat or of menace, than did the pistol and the club of the friendly Irish
cop on the beat. But the goon did not see the Patrolman as a friend. He saw the keen,
clear, sharply discerning eyes; the long, strong fingers; the smoothly flowing muscles, so
eloquent of speed and of power. He saw the Lewiston for what it was; the deadliest,
most destructive hand-weapon known to man. Above all he saw the difference in
numbers: silt or seven or eight Patrolmen to four or five or six of his own kind. If more
hoods arrived, so did more spacemen; if some departed, so did a corresponding number
of the wearers of the space-black and silver.
     "Ain't you getting tired of sticking around here, George?" One mobster asked
confidentially of. one Patrolman. "I am. What say we and some of you fellows round up
some girls and go have us a party?"
     "Uh-uh," George denied. His voice was gay and careless, but his eyes were icy
cold. "My uncle's cousin's stepson is running for second assistant dog-catcher, and I
can't leave until I find out whether he wins or not."
     Thus nothing happened; thus the invisible but nevertheless terrific tension did not
erupt into open battle; and thus, for the first time in North America's long history, a
presidential election was ninety nine and ninety nine one-hundredths percent pure!
     Evening came. The polls closed. The Cosmocrats' headquarters for the day, the
Grand Ballroom of the Hotel van der Voort, became the goal of every Patrolman who
thought be stood any chance at all of getting in. Kinnison had been there all day, of
course. So had Joy, his wife, who for lack of space has been sadly neglected in these
annals. Betty, their daughter, had come in early, accompanied by a husky and
personable young lieutenant, who has no other place in this story. Jack Kinnison arrived,
with Dimples Maynard -- dazzlingly blonde, wearing a screamingly red wisp of silk. She,
too, has been shamefully slighted here, although she was never slighted anywhere else.
     "The first time I ever saw her," Jack was wont to say, "I went right into a fiat spin,
running around in circles and biting myself in the small of the back, and couldn't pull out of
it for four hours!"
     That Miss Maynard should be a very special item is not at all surprising, in view of
the fact that she was to become the wife of one of THE Kinnisons and the mother of
another.
     The First Lensman, who had been in and out, came in to stay. So did Jill and her
inseparable, Mason Northrop. And so did others, singly or by twos or threes. Lensmen
and their wives. Conway and Clio Costigan, Dr. and Mrs. Rodebush, and Cleveland,
Admiral and Mrs. Clayton, ditto Schweikert, and Dr. Nels Bergenholm. And others. Nor
were they all North Americans, or even human. Rularion was there; and so was blocky,
stocky Dronvire of Rigel Four. No outsider could tell, ever, what any Lensman was
thinking, to say nothing of such a monstrous Lensman as Dronvire û but that hotel was
being covered as no political headquarters had ever been covered before.
     The returns came in, see-sawing maddeningly back and forth. Faster and faster.
The Maritime Provinces split fifty-fifty. Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, Cosmocrat.
New York, upstate, Cosmocrat. New York City, on the basis of incomplete but highly
significant returns, was piling up a huge Nationalist majority. Pennsylvania-labor-
Nationalist. Ohio - farmers - Cosmocrat. Twelve southern states went sill and six.
Chicago, as usual, solidly for the machine; likewise Quebec and Ottawa and Montreal
and Toronto and Detroit and Kansas City and St. Louis and New Orleans and Denver.
     Then northern and western and far southern states came is and evened the score.
Saskatchewan, Alberta, Britcol, and Alaska, all went Cosmocrat. So did Washington,
Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, Newmex, and most of the states of
Mexico.
     At three o'clock in the morning the Cosmocrats had a slight but definite lead and
were, finally, holding it. At four o'clock the lead was larger, but California was still an
unknown quantity-California could wreck everything. How would California go? Especially,
how would California's two metropolitan districts -- the two most independent and
freethinking and least predictable big cities of the nation -- how would they go?
     At five o'clock California seemed safe. Except . for Los Angeles and San
Francisco, the Cosmocrats had swept the state, and in those two great cities they held a
commanding lead. It was still mathematically possible, however, for the Nationalists to
win.
     "It's in the bag! Let's start the celebration!" someone shouted, and others took up
the cry.
     "Stop it! No!" Kinnison's parade-ground voice cut through the noise. "No
celebration is in order or will be held until the result becomes certain or Witherspoon
concedes!"
     The two events came practically together: Witherspoon conceded a couple of
minutes before it became mathematically impossible for him to win. Then came the
celebration, which went on and on interminably. At the first opportunity, however,
Kinnison took Samms by the arm, led him without a word into a small office, and shut the
door. Samms, also saying nothing, sat down in the swivel chair, put both feet up on the
desk, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply.
     "Well, Virge -- satisfied?" Kinnison broke the silence at last. His Lens was off.
"We're on our way."
     "Yes, Rod. Fully. At last." No more than his friend did he dare to use his Lens; to
plumb the depths he knew so well were there. "Now it will roll -- under its own power --
no one man now is or ever will be indispensable to the Galactic Patrol -- nothing can stop
it now!"
     EPILOGUE

The murder of Senator Morgan, in his own private ofce, was never solved. If it had
occurred before the election, suspicion would certainly have fallen upon Roderick
Kinnison, but as it was it did not. By no stretch of the imagination could anyone conceive
of "Rod the Rock" kicking a man after he had knocked him down. Not that Morgan did
not have powerful and vindictive enemies in the underworld: he had so many that it
proved impossible to fasten the crime to any one of them.
     Officially, Kinnison was on a five-year leave of absence from the Galactic Patrol,
the office of Port Admiral had been detached entirely from the fleet and assigned to the
Office of the President of North America. Actually, however, in every respect that
counted, Roderick Kinnison was still Port Admiral, and would remain so until he died or
until the Council retired him by force.
     Officially, Kinnison was taking a short, well-earned vacation from the job in which
he had been so outstandingly sucessful. Actually, he was doing a quick flit to Petrine, to
get personally acquainted with the new Lensmen and to see what kind of a job they were
doing. Besides; Virgil Samms was already there.
     He arrived. He got acquainted. He saw. He approved.
     "How about coming back to Tellus with me, Virge?" he asked, when the visiting
was done. "I've got to make a speech, and it'd be nice to have you hold my head."
     "I'd be glad to," and the Chicago took off.
     Half of North America was dark when they neared Tellus; all of it, apparently, was
obscured by clouds. Only the navigating officers of the vessel knew where they were,
nor did either of the two Lensmen care. They were having too much fun arguing about
the talents and abilities of their respective grandsons.
     The Chicago landed. A bug was waiting. The two Lensmen, without an order
being given, were whisked away. Samms had not asked where the speech was to be
given, and Kinnison simply did not realize that he had not told him all about it. Thus
Samms had no idea that he was just leaving Spokane Spaceport, Washington.
     After a few miles of fast, open-country driving the bug reached the city. It slowed
down, swung into brightly-lighted Maple Street, and passed a sign reading "Cannon Hill"
something-or-other -- neither of which names meant anything to either Lensman.
     Kinnison looked at his friend's red-thatched head and glanced at his watch.
     "Looking at you reminds me -- I need a haircut," he remarked. "Should have got
one aboard, but didn't think of it. Joy told me if I come home without it she'll braid it in
pigtails and tie it up with pink ribbons, and you're shaggier than I am. You've got to get
one or else buy yourself a violin. What say we do it now?"
     "Have we got time enough?"
     "Plenty." Then, to the driver: "Stop at the first barber shop you see, please."
     "Yes, sir. There's a good one a few blocks further along."
     The bug sped down Maple Street, turned sharply into plainly-marked Twelfth
Avenue. Neither Lensman saw the sign.
     "Here you are, sir."
     "Thanks."
     There were two barbers and two chairs, both empty. The Lensmen, noticing that
the place was neatly kept and meticulously clean, sat down and resumed their discussion
of two extremely unusual infants. The barbers went busily to work.
     "Just as well, though -- better, really -- that the kids didn't marry each other, at
that," Kinnison concluded finally. "The way it is, we've each got a grandson -- it'd be
tough to have to share one with you."
     Samms made no reply to this sally, for something was happening. The fact that
this fair-skinned, yellow-haired blue-eyed barber was left-handed had not rung any bells
û there were lots of left-handed barbers. He had neither seen nor heard the cat -- a less-
than-half-grown, gray, tiger-striped kitten -- which, after standing up on its hind legs to
sniff ecstatically at his nylon-clad ankles, had uttered a couple of almost inaudible
"meows" and had begun to purr happily. Crouching, tensing its strong little legs, it leaped
almost vertically upward. Its tail struck the barber's elbow.
     Hastily brushing the kitten aside, and beginning profuse apologies both for his
awkwardness and for the presence of the cat -- he had never done such a thing before
and he would drown him forthwith -- the barber applied a styptic pencil and recollection
hit Samms a pile-driver blow.
     "Well, I'm a . . !" He voiced three highly un-Samms-like, highly specific expletives
which, as Mentor had foretold so long before, were both self-derogatory and profane.
Then, as full realization dawned, he bit a word squarely in two.
     "Excuse me, please, Mr. Carbonero, for this outrageous display. It was not the
scratch, nor was any of it your fault. Nothing you could have done would have. . ."
     "You know my name?" the astonished barber interrupted.
     "Yes. You were . . . ah . . . recommended to me by a . . . a friend . . " Whatever
Samms could say would make things worse. The truth, wild as it was, would have to be
told, at least in part. "You do not look like an Italian, but perhaps you have enough of that
racial heritage to believe in prophecy?"
     "Of course, sir. There have always been prophets -- true prophets."
     "Good. This event was foretold in detail; in such complete detail that I was deeply,
terribly shocked. Even to the kitten. You call it Thomas."
     "Yes, sir. Thomas Aquinas."
     "It is actually a female. In here, Thomasina!" The kitten had been climbing
enthusiastically up his leg; now, as he held a pocket invitingly open, she sprang into it,
settled down, and began to purr blissfully. While the barbers and Kinnison stared pop-
eyed Samms went on:
     "She is determined to adopt me, and it would be a shame not to requite such
affection. Would you part with her -- for, say, ten credits?"
     "Ten credits! I'll be glad to give her to you for nothing!"
     "Ten it is, then. One more thing. Rod, you always carry a pocket rule. Measure
this scratch, will you? You'll find it's mighty close to three millimeters long."
     "Not `close', Virgo--it's exactly three millimeters, as near as this vernier can scale
it."
     "And just above and parallel to the cheek-bone."
     "Check. Just above and as parallel as though it had been ruled there by a
draftsman."
     "Well, that's that. Let's get finished with the haircuts, before you're late for your
speech," and the barbers, with thoughts which will be left to the imagination, resumed
their interrupted tasks.
     "Spill it, Virge!" Kinnison Leased the pent-up thought. If Carbonero, who did not
know Samms at all, had been amazed at what had been happening, Kinnison, who had
known him so long and so well, had been literally and completely dumbfounded. "What in
hell's behind this? What's the story? GIVE!"
     Samms told him, and a mental silence fell; a silence too deep for intelligible
thought. Each was beginning to realize that he never would and never could know what
Mentor of Arisia really was.